Red Blooded Murder

by Laura Caldwell

  When she had been accepted into a rheumatology practice after her residency, she thought her life of bills and student loans was over. She was making enough not just to pay those loans back but to save and to put her kids in Ivy League colleges. Her children wouldn’t have to hustle and piece together scholarships and grants like she had. Dr. Hamilton and her husband bought the house. They put her kids in the University of Chicago Lab School, and they lived well, she said. They lived big.

  But Medicare payments got cut, and then insurance companies slashed the amounts for which they would reimburse physicians. Meanwhile, her own insurance premiums skyrocketed. Her two partners at her small practice were getting older, and they asked her to step in as managing partner. She did, but sometimes she had to take a cut in monthly pay, just to pay her partners their salaries. Then one of her partners got sued, and the verdict was outside his insurance coverage. The attorneys for the patient went after the doctor’s practice group, and because of some legal loophole due to a shoddy limited liability corporation (set up before Dr. Hamilton was even on board) the practice took a hit, and then none of the doctors got paid for a while.

  The result, Dr. Hamilton said, was that she found herself in dire financial straits. As she talked, her face looked stricken under the soft light that emanated from the Italian glass. She couldn’t admit it to anyone. She was a doctor, after all. She was the star of her family and her friends. And yet because her husband was staying home with the kids and not working, she found herself in a worse financial position than anyone she knew.

  “And then I met Jackson Prince.” Her eyes stared up at the Italian glass, as if to stop tears from falling. “I can’t stand it when doctors testify against other doctors, especially in the same city. I said I’d never do it, but I started putting feelers out there, saying that I would review some medical malpractice cases. I needed to figure out some way to make money. Prince calls. Asks me to consult on one case. I gave a deposition for him. He said the other attorneys were blown out of the water because I was so cool under pressure. And I liked hearing that, you know? Because personally I was under so much pressure. I thought maybe I’d testify some more. But there aren’t a lot of rheumatology malpractice cases. I asked Prince a couple of times if he had any more work for me. He said not yet. And then he asked if I prescribed Ladera.”

  She stopped, exhaling as if she’d just remembered to do so.

  “And had you recommended that drug to your patients?” I asked.

  She smiled bitterly. “That was another kick in the pants. The drug reps who pushed Ladera were persuasive. I mean, they can’t wine and dine doctors the way they used to back in the pharmaceutical heyday, but they would ask you to give talks for them and they paid you for the talks. The more you prescribed the drug, the more they liked you and asked you to do these talks and pay you for it. So I made Ladera my preferred arthritis drug. I prescribed it for ninety-five percent of my arthritis patients.”

  “Did any of them have heart complications like the lawsuit alleges?”

  “Some. Two died. I referred the cases to Jackson Prince’s office. And then he called one day. I remember it because I was in my office and our lawyers had just told me that we’d lost another lawsuit. One of my partners had really gotten sloppy in his old age. And so I get this call, and I can feel it all swooping away from me, and I was so scared. And then Prince calls and we talked and I thought, ‘How funny. One lawyer sinks me, another one saves me.’”

  “What did he say?”

  She pressed her lips together hard. “He said I must have other patients who had heart problems. He was looking for more plaintiffs.”

  “Was this after the class action suit was filed?”

  “Before. There were a smattering of isolated Ladera cases, but Prince wanted to get more and get them certified for class action status. He told me that’s where all the money is.”

  “But if you personally didn’t have any other patients who had problems from Ladera, there was no one to refer to Prince, right?”

  She sighed. “He didn’t just want referrals. He wanted me to go through my records and find anybody who’d developed the tiniest heart condition or wheezing or shortness of breath, or anything like that. I’ll give you an example. A large number of women over fifty develop mitral valve prolapse, okay? It’s a minor condition where the chambers of the heart don’t exactly close perfectly. It’s usually harmless, and it isn’t normally caused by anything specific. But it is a heart condition, and if that patient had taken Ladera, even if there was only a small chance the drug could have caused it, Prince could file a lawsuit for them.”

  “And increase the numbers of plaintiffs,” I said. “And get lead-counsel status. And get a lot of money if the lawsuit brings settlements or verdicts.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know how all that legal stuff works. I didn’t want to know. I just heard Prince tell me that if I gave him the names of these patients and their contact information, he’d never say he got the names from me. He’d just contact them and ask if they’d ever taken Ladera, whether they’d ever had a condition like mitral valve prolapse-or whatever condition I told him they had-and he’d tell them he’d file a lawsuit for them. Patients don’t say no to that, right? It’s potential free money.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “And that’s what his offer was like for me, too.”

  “He paid you for the information?”

  Her eyes were closed, as if she couldn’t bear to see what was in front of her. She nodded. “A lot. For every name, I got a lump sum. Each patient I could think of that had anything even resembling a heart condition, he’d take. And each time I got paid. And for a while I could breathe again.”

  “I’m sure you know this, but it’s highly unethical for lawyers to pay doctors for referrals or for that kind of information.”

  She gave me a withering look. “Are you kidding me? It’s highly unethical for me to give that kind of information. I violated physician-patient privilege. I went against everything I’ve been taught, everything I believe in. Like I said before, I could lose my license.”

  “And yet you told Jane all this?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Because the more money I took from Prince, the guiltier I felt. If I thought I was an emotional wreck before, it got even worse. And it took its toll on my marriage. My husband cheated on me.” She scoffed. “He left me for some girl who lives in Pittsburgh!” She pointed at the ceiling. “I’m left here to raise my kids on my own. And I keep thinking, God, what kind of an example am I?”

  Dr. Hamilton stopped and looked at me, her eyes beseeching, as if I could answer the question. When I said nothing, she slumped a little in her chair. “When Jane called me, saying she was doing a story on Prince, it was like a sign. It was like someone saying, ‘Stop this madness. Admit what you did and move on.’ And I trusted Jane, because she had done so much to find who killed my brother. She said she would keep my name out of it. So I told her.”

  She sat up again and pushed her shoulders back. “And now Jane is gone. And if Jackson Prince did anything to her, I could never live with myself. I’m having a hard enough time living with myself anyway.”

  The suffering in her eyes was painful. “Now that Jane has been killed,” I said, “would you be willing to tell the cops what you’ve told me?”

  She nodded. A small, rueful smile broke through the gloom of her expression. “Yeah. Yeah, I would. Because I’m coming clean. I’m starting over.” She lifted her shoulders then let them fall again. “Whatever happens, from now on, I’m going to be the person my kids think I am.”

  60

  D etective Vaughn wasn’t at the station when I called. I knew Maggie would tell me to never contact him but I didn’t care. I got his voice mail as I whizzed down Lake Shore Drive in Grady’s car, speeding past the skyline, the city lights blurring in crazy streaks in the car window. I left a message, summarizing in a rush what I learned from Dr. Hamilton. Then I called Mayburn
and told him the long version.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said when I came to the end of the story. “Jackson Prince is one of the most respected trial lawyers in the city. In the country, even.”

  “Respect doesn’t buy them anything. And class actions? Hell, I knew a P.I. who worked on a class action case. He got paid $150 an hour, which seems good, right? But those lawyers? Even after the plaintiffs got paid, they got fifty, maybe sixty million.”

  “I know. Wait until Vaughn hears this.”

  Mayburn grunted. “Don’t expect him to change his mind. When these cops get it in their head you did something, it’s hard as hell to get them off it. They’re dogs with a bone. And for some reason, from what you’ve told me, you’re looking like a damn good one right now.”

  Anxiety hit my stomach. “Did you find the contact information for those doctors that were on that list? Like phone numbers and e-mails?”

  “Yeah. What do you want them for?”

  “I’m going to rattle their cages. See if I can get them to say anything about Prince and whether he had the same arrangement with them that he had with Dr. Hamilton.”

  “I think you’re going to have to talk to Prince, too. You’re good at reading people. See what his reaction is.”

  “But if he killed Jane because she knew this, or he had someone kill her, would he do the same to me?”

  “What are you more scared of? That he’s going to come after you? Or that you could spend your life in prison?”

  61

  I drove fast down Sedgwick, speeding by Eugenie to see if the media was still on my front lawn. Not as many as before, but a few were camped out.

  I turned around before they saw me and drove to my mom’s house on State Street. She’d been calling all day since the police press conference.

  When I got there, the lights of her house were on, thank God.

  “Oh, honey,” my mom said when she opened the door. She stepped outside and gripped me in a tight hug. This was unlike my mother-open and fierce displays of affection. But then again, having a daughter named a person of interest in a murder case would probably bring out the affection in any parent.

  “The media is at my place,” I said, my words muffled by her shoulder, which was cloaked in a pale green blouse. “I’ve been gone all day, but I don’t want to go home.”

  “This is your home, too, Izzy. C’mon.” My mother led me inside and upstairs to her bedroom. It was a serene place decorated with pale silk walls and a white chaise lounge in the corner. She pulled me into her closet. It had once been the maid’s quarters in this house, but now it held my mother’s expansive and expensive wardrobe. “We have to get you out of that suit.” She poked through her shelves, rifled through hangers. “Let’s see…”

  Finally she placed a light pink sweater on the center dresser. “I know you don’t like pink, but I promise you this sweater is the most comfortable one I own.” She flipped through a few more hangers, pulling out a pair of ivory trousers.

  “Mom, you’re thinner than me. Those will never fit.”

  “Of course they will. They’re a size larger than I normally wear because I got them to wear on the flight to South Africa.” Mom and Spence had recently taken a trip to Capetown. My mother still believed that one should dress up for a flight. The fact that people wore sweats, or even pajamas, on a flight horrified her.

  “We’ll be downstairs,” she said. “Charlie brought over some wine.”

  We looked at each other and, without saying anything, laughed. Charlie was always bringing over wine.

  She left the closet, and as I started to strip off my suit, I thought about the fact that Charlie spent so much time here. He was a regular in this house, while I was only an occasional visitor.

  After I changed into my mother’s clothes, the difference in my mood was palpable. Baby-pink and ivory were my mother’s colors, not mine. The trousers, lined with heavy silk, were wide legged, made for the very tall and the very thin, not the style I would usually wear. I had to cuff the bottoms. Yet it was nice, for a moment, to not only slip out of my suit but out of myself.

  When I got downstairs, Spence, Charlie and my mom were tucked into the table by the kitchen bay window. Charlie lifted his chin in greeting. Spence jumped up to hug me.

  I looked around. A few bottles of wine sat on the counter, along with wedges of cheese wrapped in red-and-white paper.

  I slid into the banquette next to Charlie.

  “You all right?” he said.

  “No.” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He nodded then shifted around in the booth, wincing a bit.

  “Is your back still bothering you?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “See the doctor lately?”

  “Can’t afford it,” he said in a low voice. “The settlement money is almost gone.”

  I looked at my mom and Spence. They were arguing about how much cheese to put on a plate. “Ask Mom and Spence. They’ll help you.”

  “I know, but I don’t want them to. They help me enough. I just have to figure out what I should do. What I want to do.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know. The guy known as Sheets might actually have to spend less time in bed and more time looking for a job.”

  “It’s the end of an era.”

  He shoved me playfully. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to start competing with you for overachiever status.”

  My mom put a plate of cheese, prosciutto and bread in front of us. I looked up and noticed that the TV was on low in a corner above the cabinets. Spence and my mother so rarely watched TV that I couldn’t ever recall seeing it on. When I looked closer, I saw why they were watching it.

  “CNN,” I said. “Has there been anything about Jane?” It was easier to say about Jane than about me.

  Spence and my mother exchanged glances.

  “A story earlier,” my mom said. “Just a short piece.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Nothing really.”

  “They were reporting rumors,” my brother said. “They’re like a bunch of eighth-grade girls.”

  Until today, I had been part of that bunch. “They’re just doing their job.”

  Spence poured me a glass of wine.

  “Tell me about the story,” I said. “I want to know everything.”

  Earlier, I had no interest in seeing what the media was churning out. I thought I’d be too freaked out. But ever since I told Sam that I was saving myself, I no longer wanted to hide. Not from anything. Not from rumors or lies or half-truths. I was in a battle, and I needed as much intel as I could get.

  Spence and my brother stayed silent, but my mom looked at me and nodded. “They’re just hashing and rehashing. They showed the press conference. They said you were a person of interest. They showed you leaving Trial TV. They showed you coming home and then leaving again.” She looked at her watch. “We’ve been waiting for the nine-o’clock local news.”

  I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was just about nine now. “Let’s put it on.”

  My mom and Spence sat down, and my mom changed the channel to WGN.

  We silently sipped our wine, while we waited for the news at the top of the hour. And finally there it was. My mother picked up the remote again and turned it louder.

  “Good evening,” the newscaster was saying. “Once again, our leading story is the murder of local newscaster Jane Augustine. And we have breaking news.”

  “Oh, boy,” my brother said.

  My stomach tensed.

  “Earlier today the police asked the community for help in identifying a man known only as ‘Mick,’ a man who had possibly spent time with Augustine over the weekend. And now, that man is speaking out.” The shot changed to a guy standing in front of a bookshelf. A handsome guy. Gray hair, tanned face. It was Mick, all right. I grabbed the remote, dialed up the volume even more.

  A banner across the bottom of the screen read Mick Grenier, and below
that, Writer. Spent time with Jane Augustine. There were three news mikes set up in front of him. He began speaking. “I invited the press into my home today in order to let the authorities know that I was the person who spent time with Jane Augustine on the Friday before her death. We were friends. And I had nothing to do with her murder.”

  “Oh, really?” I jumped up from the table. “That guy was stalking Jane!”

  I grabbed the phone from the counter and dialed the number for the Belmont police station, a number I’d just dialed. I asked for Vaughn. He wasn’t in. Yet again his voice mail.

  “Hey, Vaughn,” I said. “The guy I told you about, the one who was stalking Jane Augustine? He’s giving a press conference right now on WGN, in case you care.”

  I slammed the phone down. I looked at my family. Charlie was making a face like Uh-oh. My mother’s eyes were riveted to the TV. Spence gave me a little smile and a nod, and I could just hear him thinking something like, Nice spunk.

  On TV, Mick was still going on about his friendship with Jane, how she was a lovely woman, how he’d met her because he was covering her for some story.

  “Oh, that’s bullshit!” I said.

  Just then they showed the outside of Grenier’s house. “Hey!” I pointed to it. “I know that house.” It was on Goethe Street, only a few blocks from my mom’s.

  “Gotta go,” I said. Without grabbing a coat or even my purse, I strode through the living room, stepping into a pair of my mother’s shoes, and dashed out the front door.

  62

  I t took me five minutes to find Mick’s place. It wasn’t hard. Three news trucks were parked on the street, men loading stuff into them. Clearly, Mick’s little press conference was over. I waited down the block, watching the cameramen pack their vehicles then a few reporters leave the house, which was small, well-tended and tucked between two larger buildings.

  When it looked as if everyone was gone, I trotted up the steps. I was about to knock on the front door-an old one made of carved wood and painted a deep cabernet-but I decided instead to just try it. The knob turned, opening onto a small, sophisticated living room lined with books. And there, in front of a bookshelf, was Mick. He was picking up chairs, obviously tidying up after the conference.