“Ah, yes,” Dr. Ho said placidly. “I believe that is a definite possibility.”
“That’s crazy!” Sergeant Boone burst out.
“Is it?” the doctor said. “What’s so crazy? Surely you will not deny the influence of mental and emotional attitudes on physical health? The close relationship has been firmly established. You can will yourself to live and will yourself to die. All I am saying is that the physical health of this woman could be adversely affected by the strains and fear connected with her horrible activities. There may be a psychological factor at work here as well. If she acknowledges the evil of what she is doing, sees herself as a worthless individual not fit for society, that too might affect her health.”
“Look,” Deputy Thorsen said, “let’s not go off into left field trying to figure out the emotional and psychological quirks of this woman. We’ll leave that to the psychiatrists after we’ve caught her. But let’s just stick to what we’ve got. You think she’s suffering from Addison’s disease, and either it’s not being adequately treated or she’s ignoring the treatment, and the stress of these murders is killing her. That sounds silly, but it’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“Approximately,” Dr. Ho said in a low voice.
“So?” the Admiral said. “Where do we go from here? How do we begin finding everyone in New York City suffering from Addison’s disease?”
They stared at each other a moment.
“Go to all the doctors?” Sergeant Boone questioned. “Ask them if they’re treating anyone with the disease?”
Edward X. Delaney wagged his big head, side to side.
“Won’t work, sergeant,” he said. “You know the laws of confidentiality regarding privileged information between doctor and patient. The doctors will tell us to go screw and the courts will back them up.”
“Edward,” Thorsen said, “suppose we go to all the doctors in the city and instead of demanding the names of any patients they’re treating for Addison’s disease, we just ask a general question, like, ‘Are you treating anyone for Addison’s’?”
Delaney thought a moment before he answered:
“If a physician wants to cooperate with the cops, I think he could answer a general question like that without violating the law or his code of ethics. But what the hell good would it do? If a doctor answered, ‘Yes,’ then our next question would have to be, ‘What is the patient’s name and address?’ Then he’d tell us to get lost and we’d be right back where we started.”
They sat in silence, staring at their hands, the walls, the ceiling, trying to come up with something.
“Dr. Ho,” the Chief said, “in answer to one of the Deputy’s questions, you said an Addisonian victim would not have those skin discolorations if she was receiving the proper treatment. Right?”
“That is correct.”
“But our killer obviously isn’t getting the proper treatment or, for whatever reason, it isn’t working the way it should. Her blood is all fucked up. Does that mean she would have the skin discolorations?”
“Ah, I would say possibly. Even probably, judging by the high MSH level.”
“Could the discolorations be seen? On the street, I mean, if she was dressed in everyday clothes? Would a witness notice the blotches?”
“Ah, I would say no. Not on the elbows, knees, palms of the hands, etcetera. If it spread heavily to hands and face, then of course it would be noticeable. But by that time the victim would probably be hospitalized.”
“How do the laws of privileged information apply to hospitals?” Boone asked.
“Same as to physicians,” Delaney said. “In hospitals, patients are under a doctor’s care. All information is privileged.”
“Shit,” Boone said.
“Perhaps,” Dr. Ho said tentatively, “the Mayor would be willing to make a personal appeal to all the doctors of the city, asking for their cooperation in this civic emergency.”
The Deputy Commissioner looked at him pityingly.
“I don’t believe the Mayor would care to put himself in the position of urging physicians publicly to break the law. He had enough trouble just getting that offer of a fifty-thousand-dollar reward past the Council. No, doctor, don’t expect any help from the politicos. They have their own problems.”
They all went back to staring into the middle distance.
“The problem here is identification,” the Chief said. “How do we identify all the victims of Addison’s disease in New York?”
“Wait,” Dr. Patrick Ho said, holding up a plump palm.
They looked at him.
“A problem of identification,” the doctor mused. “All the papers I read on Addison’s were written for physicians, and gave the history of the disease, symptoms, treatment, and so forth. Without fail, every author recommended the Addisonian victim be instructed to wear a medical identification bracelet stating that he suffered from the disease. Also, the bracelet carries his name and address, and the name, address, and phone number of his doctor. This is in case of emergency, you understand. An automobile accident, sudden injury, or fainting.”
“Go on,” Delaney said, hunching forward on his chair. “This is beginning to sound good.”
“Also, the patient should carry a small kit at all times. In the kit is a sterile syringe containing a hydrocortisone solution ready for injection in an emergency, with instructions for use.”
“Better and better,” Delaney said. “And where do you get a bracelet and kit like that?”
“Ah, I do not know,” Dr. Ho confessed. “But I would guess the sources are limited. That is, you could not walk into just any drugstore in the city and expect to buy such specialized equipment. It would have to be a medical supply house, I would think, or a pharmacy that handles rare and difficult prescriptions.”
“There can’t be many places like that in the city,” Sergeant Boone said slowly.
“Edward,” Thorsen said, “do the laws of privileged information apply to prescriptions in drugstores?”
“I’d say not,” the Chief said. “I think you take a prescription in and then it’s between you and the pharmacist. It’s out of the doctor’s hands, and the pharmacist can reveal the names of the patient and the doctor who wrote the prescription.”
“I better get a legal ruling on it,” the Deputy said.
“Good idea,” Delaney said. “Meanwhile, sergeant, I think you better organize a crew to track down the places that sell those medical identification bracelets and kits to people with Addison’s disease.”
“Long shot,” Boone said doubtfully.
“Sure it is,” Delaney said. “And that convention schedule access list is a long shot. And the list of tear gas customers is a long shot. But every list makes the odds shorter. We get enough lists, and crosscheck them, we’re going to come up with some good possibles.”
“Oh, I love this work!” Dr. Patrick Ho cried, his dark eyes gleaming.
They looked at him.
July 7-8; Monday and Tuesday …
Zoe Kohler sat primly at her desk in the security section of the Hotel Granger. She had finished four letters for Everett Pinckney, placed the neatly typed pages and envelopes on his desk. She had completed a tentative summer vacation schedule, requesting August 11-22 for herself since those were the weeks Ernest Mittle would be off.
She leafed idly through the pages of the current issue of the hotel trade magazine. The lead article reported that the New York association had raised its reward for capture of the Hotel Ripper. That brought the total of rewards offered to more than $100,000.
Mr. Pinckney came in with the signed letters and handed them to her for mailing.
“Perfect job, Zoe,” he said. “As usual.” He noticed the magazine on her desk and snapped his fingers. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said, “and it keeps slipping my mind. Last week a detective came by the manager’s office and got a list of everyone in the hotel who sees that magazine.”
“A detective, Mr. Pinckney?
From the police department?”
“That’s what his ID said. He wouldn’t tell us what it was all about, just wanted the names of everyone who saw the magazine. Said they were checking the entire mailing list of the publisher.”
“That’s odd,” Zoe said, her voice toneless.
“Isn’t it?” Pinckney said. “I guessed it might have something to do with the Hotel Ripper case, but he wouldn’t say. Can you imagine how big a job that will be? Why, we get six copies ourselves, and I suppose thousands are distributed. The list of people who read it must be endless.”
“It’s certainly a strange thing to do,” Zoe said.
“Well,” Pinckney said, shrugging, “I suppose they have their reasons. Whatever it is, I haven’t heard any more about it.”
He went back into his office and a moment later she heard the sound of his desk drawer being opened and the clink of bottle and glass.
She sat there staring down at the journal. She wondered if Mr. Pinckney’s guess was correct, that the detective’s request had something to do with the Hotel Ripper case. She could not conceive what the connection might be. As he said, thousands of people had access to the magazine.
Still, the incident was unsettling; it left her feeling uneasy and somehow threatened. She had a sense of the initiative slipping from her hands. Once again in her life she was being moved and manipulated by forces outside herself.
She had the same feeling of being pushed in directions she did not wish to go when, late in the afternoon, Dr. Oscar Stark phoned.
“Zoe,” he said without preamble, “I want you in the hospital as soon as possible. Your tests are back and the results are even more disturbing than I thought they’d be. I talked over your case with a friend of mine, a very capable endocrinologist, and he agrees with me that you belong in a hospital before we have an Addisonian crisis.”
“I won’t go,” she said flatly. “I don’t need a hospital. I’m perfectly all right.”
“Now you listen to me, young lady,” he said sharply. “You are not perfectly all right. You are suffering from a pernicious disease that requires constant treatment and monitoring. All your vital signs point to a serious deterioration of your condition. We’ve got to find out why. I’m not talking about an operation; I’m talking about tests and observation. If you refuse, I can’t be responsible for the consequences.”
“No,” she said, “I won’t go to a hospital.”
He was silent a moment.
“Very well,” he said. “The only thing left for me to do is contact your parents. Then, unless you change your mind, I must ask you to consult another physician. I’m sorry, Zoe,” he said softly before he hung up.
She could not have said exactly why she was being so obdurate. She did not doubt Dr. Stark’s expertise. She supposed he was correct; she was seriously ill and her health was degenerating rapidly.
She told herself she could not endure the indignity of a hospital, of being naked before unfeeling strangers, to be poked and prodded, her body wastes examined critically, her flesh treated as a particularly vile and worthless cut of meat.
And there was also a secret fear that, somehow, in a hospital, she might be restored to perfect health, but in the process be deprived of those private pains and pleasures that were so precious to her.
She did not fully comprehend how this might happen, but the alarm was there, that hospital treatment would mollify those surges of insensate strength and will she felt during her adventures. They would reduce her to a dull, enduring beast and quench the one spark that set her above the animal people who thronged the city’s streets.
She was special in this way only. She had excited the dread of millions, had caused fury and confusion in the minds of the police, had influenced the course of events of which, heretofore, she had been merely another victim.
A hospital might end all that. It might rob her of her last remaining uniqueness. It might, in fact, destroy the uncommon soul of Zoe Kohler.
That evening, on the way home, she stopped for a light dinner at the Madison Avenue luncheonette she frequented. She had a salad of cottage cheese and fresh fruit slices. She sat at the counter, drank an iced tea, and dabbed her lips delicately with a paper napkin.
By the time she reached her apartment, she had put the whole idea of hospitals from her mind, just as she was able to ignore the now obvious manifestations of her body’s growing decrepitude. She took her pills and nostrums automatically, with the vague hope that she might wake the following morning cured and whole.
But a new shock awaited her on Tuesday. She was seated at her desk, sipping coffee and leafing through The New York Times. There, on the first page of the second section, was a headline: POLICE RELEASE NEW “RIPPER” SKETCH.
Beneath the legend was a two-column-wide drawing in line and wash. The moment Zoe Kohler saw it, she looked about wildly, then slapped another section of the paper over the sketch.
Finally, when her heart stopped thudding and she was able to breathe normally, she uncovered the drawing again and stared at it long and hard.
She thought it was so like. The hair was incorrectly drawn, her face was too long and thin, but the artist had caught the shape of her eyebrows, straight lips, the pointed chin.
The more she stared, the more the drawing seemed to resemble her. She could not understand why hotel employees did not rush into her office, crowd around her desk, point at her with accusing fingers.
Surely Mr. Pinckney, Barney McMillan, or Joe Levine would note the resemblance; they were trained investigators. And if not them, then Ernest Mittle, Maddie Kurnitz, or Dr. Stark would see her in that revealing sketch and begin to wonder, to question.
Or, if none of her friends or acquaintances, it might be a passerby, a stranger on the street. She had an awful fantasy of a sudden shout, hue and cry, a frantic chase, capture. And possibly a beating by the maddened mob. A lynching.
It was not fear that moved her so much as embarrassment. She could never endure the ignominy of a public confrontation like that: the crazed eyes, wet mouths, the obscenities. Rather die immediately than face that humiliation.
She read the newspaper article printed beneath the drawing, and noted the detailed description of the clothing she had worn to the Tribunal Motor Inn. She supposed that she had been seen having a drink with that boy, and witnesses had told the police.
There was even mention that she drank white wine, though nothing was said about fingerprints. But the police suggested the woman they sought spoke in a low, polite voice, wore her hair quite short, dressed plainly, and might be employed as a secretary.
It was fascinating, in a strange way, to read this description of herself. It was like seeing one’s image in a mirror that was a reflection of an image in another mirror. Reality was twice removed; the original was slightly distorted and wavery.
There was no doubt it was Zoe Kohler, but it was a remote woman, divorced from herself. It was a likeness, a very good likeness, with her hair, face, body, clothes. But it was not her. It was a replica.
Carefully she scissored the drawing from the newspaper, folded it, put it deep in her purse. Then, thinking that someone might notice the clipped page, she carried the whole newspaper to the trash room and dug it into a garbage can.
She hurried home from work that evening, keeping her head lowered, resisting an urge to hold her purse up in front of her face. No one took any notice of her. As usual, she was the invisible woman.
Safe in her apartment, she sat with a glass of iced vodka and inspected that damning sketch again. It seemed incredible that no one had recognized her.
As she stared at the drawing, she felt once again the sensation of disorientation. Like the printed description, the portrait was her and yet it was not her. It was a blurred likeness. She wondered if her body’s rot had spread to her face, and this was a representation of dissolution.
She was still inspecting the drawing, eagerly, hungrily, trying to find meaning in it, when her parents called fr
om Minnesota.
“Baby,” her father said, “this is Dad, and Mother is on the extension.”
“Hello, Dad, Mother. How are you?”
“Oh, Zoe!” her mother wailed, and began weeping noisily.
“Now, Mother,” her father said, “you promised you wouldn’t. Baby, we got a call from a doctor there in New York. Man named Stark. He your doctor?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Well, he says you’re sick, baby. He says you should be in a hospital.”
“Oh, Dad, that’s silly. I was feeling down for a few days, but I’m all right now. You know how doctors are.”
“Are you telling the truth, Zoe?” her mother asked tearfully.
“Mother, I’m perfectly all right. I’m taking my medicine and eating well. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.”
“Well, you certainly sound all right, baby. Are you sure you don’t want me or Mother to come to New York?”
“Not on my account, Dad. There’s just no need for it.”
“Well, uh, as Mother wrote you, we were planning a trip to Hawaii this summer, but we can …”
“Oh, Dad, don’t change your plans. I’m really in very good health.”
“What do you weigh, Zoe?”
“About the same, Mother. Maybe a pound or two less, but I’ll get that back.”
“Well, why the hell did that New York doctor call us, baby? He got me and your mother all upset.”
“Dad, you know how doctors are; the least little thing and they want to put you in the hospital.”
“Have you missed work, Zoe?”
“Not a single day, Mother. That proves I’m all right, doesn’t it?”
“Listen, baby, we’re not going to Hawaii until late in July. Do you think you’ll be able to get out here on your vacation?”
“I don’t know when my vacation is, Dad. When I find out, I’ll write you, and maybe we can work something out, even if it’s only for a few days.”
“Have you met anyone, Zoe?” her mother asked. “You know—a nice boy?”
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