Medical Judgment

by Richard L. Mabry M. D.

  As she neared the back of the sanctuary, she saw the pastor standing there, shaking hands with the people exiting. Sarah started to edge into a pew and head for a side door, but two ladies talking blocked her way, and she didn’t want to push her way past them like a halfback through a defensive line. She squared her shoulders and followed the crowd down the main aisle toward where the pastor stood. When she reached him, she shook his hand and said, “Nice sermon.”

  “Sarah, I know how tough it must be for you to be back here. I won’t give you any platitudes about things getting better day by day, because I know from my own experience that sometimes it takes many months, sometimes years before you get past an experience like this.” He leaned in and spoke into her ear. “If you want to talk, give me a call.”

  Then he’d turned his attention to the people next in line, and Sarah walked out of the church. As the bright sunshine caused her to blink, she replayed his words. He talked about “his own experience.” She didn’t recall much about the death of the pastor’s wife, although she had a feeling she should. She’d have to check into that. Then she remembered that her pastor’s name was on the list of suspects. Surely, Steve Farber wasn’t the one who—

  “Do you remember that I need to come over for another look at your backyard?” Sarah recognized Bill Larson’s quiet voice behind her.

  Something about Larson’s visits had suggested there was more behind them than just a detective doing his job. Sarah didn’t want to lead the man on, but she recognized he did indeed need to see the yard in daylight. Maybe she could handle this in such a way as to make the visit purely professional. “Sure. You can come over right now if you wish.”

  “I’ll stop by somewhere for a sandwich first. Shouldn’t take long.”

  Sarah decided there was no reason fighting it. “I was going to fix a sandwich for myself. I guess I could make one for you, as well.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble,” Larson said. “But if we could talk a bit about the case while we eat, maybe this won’t take too long.”

  Sarah figured this was probably the best way to handle the situation. Besides, it would be nice not to eat alone. “Sure.” She started to say she’d leave the front door unlocked for him but thought better of it. “Just knock when you get there.” She grimaced. “The doorbell is still broken.”

  * * *

  Larson finished the iced tea in his glass. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a meal this much, even a simple one like a ham and cheese sandwich, chips, and iced tea. The more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn’t just the food—though it tasted fine—but the fact he had company for the meal.

  Their conversation was casual and unforced. He asked her how her dog was doing, and she asked if he had any new suspects. Beyond that, their talk was about people they’d both come in contact with, a bit of gossip concerning a local character’s latest antics, the status of some of the region’s sports teams. In other words, it was normal Sunday lunch conversation—the same kind he and Annie used to have . . . that is, when he was sober enough to sit down for a family lunch. Unfortunately, those days had become rare toward the end of their marriage.

  The barking of a dog in the distance made Larson stop talking and look around.

  “That’s the dog from down the street,” Sarah said. “Ordinarily he’s pretty quiet. I don’t know what got him barking.”

  Larson decided it was time to get to work. Although he’d like to continue the pretense of a normal Sunday lunch, this was supposed to be a follow-up on the attack on Sarah’s dog. With a sigh of genuine regret, he folded his napkin beside the plate and pushed back from the table.

  “Is something wrong?” she said.

  “I almost forgot the real reason I’m here. It’s time for me to go to work. I need to have another look in your backyard,” he said. “I may see something in the daylight that I missed last night. Is this door in the kitchen the only way to get into the yard?”

  “From the house, yes. There’s also a gate in the fence along the side of the yard, but it’s secured with a padlock. And I know what you’re thinking—if there were a way into the yard, he could have used a tranquilizer dart or something on poor Prince.”

  “But since there wasn’t, he had to shoot him. Unless shooting him was what he had in mind all along.”

  “You mean—”

  Larson nodded. “Maybe this was another action aimed at torturing you. He didn’t want to kill you yet, but he decided that shooting your dog would serve two purposes. It would hurt you and get rid of your guard dog . . . at least for a while.”

  “How did he do it? He’d have to be awfully tall to see over the fence, much less shoot the dog from there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sarah stood in the alley and watched as Larson demonstrated how the prowler gained access. “Right here,” he said. “See it?”

  Sarah moved a step closer to the fence and looked where Larson pointed. Like most such fences, this one was made of panels put together into sections. The boards forming the panels were supported by three sets of stringers or rails constructed from two by fours. These ran parallel to each other at heights of about one foot, three feet, and five feet from the ground. Though they were sometimes on the inside of the fence, in this case the stringers faced the alley. On the bottom and middle rails of one section were two areas where the wood was scuffed and splintered.

  Larson turned to Sarah and explained. “Assuming he was of average height, he’d simply need to climb up on the first and second sets of two by fours, lean over the top of the fence, and fire. I’m betting the vet that cared for your dog’s gunshot wound will tell me the bullet entered from above. I need to get that slug, by the way, for analysis.”

  “Can you compare it with the one you dug out of my door frame? You know, ballistics testing?”

  “The one from the house was pretty beat up. We may be able to see if the caliber is the same, but that’s about it.”

  “What about fingerprints? He must have grabbed the top of the fence with one hand.”

  Larson shook his head. “I’ll get a technician to check, but there’s not a lot of chance we’ll get anything usable from wood.” He stepped back from the fence. “But now we know how he did it.”

  Sarah closed her eyes tightly, but although that shut out the scene of the detective standing by the fence, it just made another video run behind her eyelids. In it, she was putting the dog into her car at her father-in-law’s house, saying, “I’ll take care of you, Prince.” Well, she hadn’t.

  Her daughter had died. Common sense told her she couldn’t have prevented it, couldn’t have saved Jennifer, but still . . . Now her dog had been shot, the dog she said she’d care for. Sarah felt the confidence that had been building over the past few days start to fade once more.

  As though he could read her thoughts, Larson said, “It’s not your fault. And I promise you that, although it may take a while, I’m going to catch this person who’s caused you so much pain.”

  Sarah appreciated Larson’s obvious intent to assure her, but what caught her attention was the phrase, “It may take a while.” Sure. What if during that time her stalker decided he was ready for the final act in this little drama? What if, instead of making her suffer more, he ended her life?

  * * *

  Larson stopped talking when Sarah’s phone rang. He nodded his permission, and she pulled the instrument from her pocket and answered.

  Her side of the conversation was mainly short answers: “Today?” and “Can’t it wait?” and finally “Okay. See you in half an hour.”

  He looked at her and asked, “Something important?”

  “That was the contractor who did the work after the fire in my garage. He finished everything except replacing the carpet in the hall. He had to order that, so I’ve been walking on bare flooring in a couple of places for . . . has it just been a week? Anyway, the carpet came in yesterday afternoon, too late for him to call and install it. He’s slammed fo
r the next several days, so he asked if he could send over a couple of his crew to put it down now, even though it’s Sunday.”

  “Well, I think I’m about through, so I’ll get out of your way. But I have one more question first.”

  “Yes?”

  “After the accident that . . . after Harry’s accident, what happened to his computer?”

  Sarah looked puzzled. “When I finally got around to cleaning up his stuff, I put his laptop in the closet. I guess that one of these days . . . ”

  “I’m glad you have it. Because the auto crash was obviously an accident, the police didn’t investigate Harry. But now—”

  “Now you wonder if there’s a clue there about who might be behind these attacks,” Sarah said. “You think it could be someone with a grudge against Harry, and now they’re directing that anger at me?”

  “Right. So, could I see his computer?”

  Half an hour later, Larson came down the stairs with Harry’s laptop under his arm. In the hall, he passed two workmen laying carpet. They hardly looked up as he edged around them. He found Sarah in the kitchen, removing dishes from the dishwasher and putting them away in the cabinet.

  “Find anything?” she asked.

  “Battery’s dead. I’d like to take this with me and charge it, then see what’s on it.” He lowered his voice. “Those two men working in the hall . . . ”

  “The older white guy is Darrell, the younger black man is Carl. They work for Tom Oliver. What about them?”

  “They’ve worked here since right after the fire?”

  Sarah nodded. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I can’t say more until I check my facts. Meanwhile, just be sure you keep an eye on those two.”

  17

  After the church service, Kyle sat in his car in the almost-deserted church parking lot and brooded. He’d hoped to have lunch today with Sarah, but that had fallen through. He was sorry about that for two reasons: he wanted some time with her, and he hated to eat alone.

  During the week he often had a sandwich at his desk, and on more than one occasion he’d finished the food his secretary brought him and couldn’t recall what he’d just eaten. There had been a time when Sunday lunch involved relaxation, enjoying both the food and conversation. That’s what he wanted today.

  He still remembered his Sundays with Nicole. He’d pick her up for church, and afterward they’d either choose a restaurant or go to her apartment, where she’d prepare a light lunch for the two of them. Sometimes there would be a baseball or football game on the TV, the sound muted, with her paying more attention to the score than he did. Mostly, they’d talk. They had it all planned out. After their marriage, they’d move to a house somewhere outside Jameson, where she could raise their children while he continued to earn a comfortable living with his law practice.

  But, of course, all that changed when she was killed while on a church mission trip. A beam—a silly piece of wood—had fallen from the top of a chapel the group was constructing in Guatemala. It should have missed her. It might have hit her shoulder or broken her collarbone. But it struck her head, struck it squarely, and according to the doctor who was on the trip she was probably dead when she hit the floor.

  Kyle thought about what Steve Farber told him, about how the pastor reacted after the death of his own wife. Kyle hadn’t done that. He’d bottled up his emotions after Nicole’s death, because he’d heard that was what Christians did. They didn’t rail at God. They didn’t ask, “Why?” or “How?” He couldn’t recall ever being told that in so many words, but someone must have said it to him at one time or another.

  Kyle had even gotten frustrated with Sarah because she was letting the deaths of her husband and daughter get to her so badly. She’d pushed God aside, blamed Him for her loss. And Kyle kept trying to correct that.

  Then Steve—a pastor, a man of God—had as much as told him that it was okay to shake your fist at God, to be angry, to ask “Why did You let this happen?” He’d assured Kyle that God didn’t cause bad things to happen, but after they did, God would provide the help needed to get through them. That was still hard for Kyle to believe. But maybe it was true.

  He almost missed seeing the pastor exiting the church and walking toward his car. It appeared that Steve’s path would take him right by where Kyle was parked. The attorney lowered his car window, stuck out his head, and called, “Hey, Steve. Do you have plans for lunch?”

  * * *

  Sarah wished she had time to go to the veterinary clinic and check on Prince, but her visit with Larson had taken longer than she anticipated. Then the workers had come to lay the replacement carpet. No, she had to get ready for work, so the visit with Prince would have to wait. Instead, she phoned the vet’s office. The tech working this weekend shift told her that the veterinary surgeon, the one who had done the emergency procedure about twelve hours ago, had just checked the dog and said he was recovering satisfactorily.

  “Did he say how long Prince would need to stay there?” Sarah asked. She knew about gunshot wounds and emergency surgery for humans, but this was unfamiliar territory to her.

  “He didn’t say, but usually it depends on how much care the owners can give the pets when they take them home.”

  Sarah wanted to speak to the doctor. For that matter, she wanted to see Prince. Then again, would he be glad to see her, to hear her voice? Or would he associate her with what had happened to him? After all, he had no idea she was the one who wrapped him in a towel, tried to staunch the bleeding from his wound, rushed him to the twenty-four-hour veterinary facility.

  From her surgical experience, she figured Prince would be ready for discharge in two or three days, providing his blood loss hadn’t been severe and he continued to heal well. But what about his care afterward? Would she be able to take care of him? She’d have to leave him alone in the house for ten hours or so while she worked. And, in so many ways, she wasn’t certain she could give Prince what he needed.

  The obvious answer was to see if Hunter Gordon would take Prince back. She hated to break the news to her father-in-law over the phone. Maybe she could do it tomorrow morning. She’d go by the vet clinic and see if she could talk with the doctor. Then she’d drive out to Hunter’s. At this point, she wasn’t ready to forgive herself for what had happened to Prince. And she wasn’t sure if the dog would be forgiving, either.

  * * *

  The room the detectives on the Jameson police force called home was deserted this Sunday mid-afternoon. All three of the desks that occupied the center of the office were vacant when Larson entered. He glanced at the third desk in the room, the one assigned to George Markham. It reminded him that he really needed to check on the detective. His absence on medical leave had left the remaining two detectives stretched a bit thin. Would Markham think Larson was calling because he was anxious for his colleague to return to work? He’d have to be careful not to give that impression.

  Larson had his phone in his hand, ready to dial, when it dawned on him. There was something different about Markham’s desk. While the detective was out after his surgery, the work surface still contained all the material found on most desktops—memo pads, a cup containing pens and pencils, a phone, a computer. Now all those were gone. The desk was bare. Larson put down the phone, went over and opened each of the drawers. Empty.

  As he stood there, pondering this change, Cal Johnson entered the room. Larson hoped Cal had been to church with his wife this morning. If he and Ruth were going to keep their marriage together, Cal’s resumption of church attendance would provide a good start.

  “Cal, what do you make of the way George Markham’s desk has been cleaned off?” Larson asked.

  “I guess you didn’t hear,” Johnson said as he went to his own desk and began thumbing through the pink phone message slips there.

  “Hear what? Did the brass and he decide to put him on extended medical leave?”

  Johnson shook his head, but didn’t look up. “George Markham passed aw
ay yesterday.”

  Larson was surprised by the news. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “The cancer really moved fast.”

  Johnson put down the slips and walked over to stand beside Larson. He put his arm on the shoulder of his fellow detective. “It wasn’t the cancer. I guess George couldn’t stand the pain and didn’t want to die slowly. He took the cop’s way out.”

  “You mean . . . ”

  “Yep. He sent his wife on an errand, went into the bathroom, put his service pistol in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.”

  An involuntary shiver ran down Larson’s spine. He knew this was the way some cops chose to end their own lives. The phrase was “eating their guns.” Once, when he’d had too much to drink and was deeply depressed, he’d even put his own pistol in his mouth. He remembered the sensation—the cold feel of the barrel in his mouth, the sharp taste of metal mixed with gun oil. On that occasion, thankfully, he’d quickly withdrawn the gun and put it down. That was when Larson made a vow to himself that he’d never take his own life—no matter how bad things seemed. He wasn’t certain if it was because it would be an act of surrender or if he had some idea of what it would do to those left behind after such an act. But whatever the reason, he’d never been so desperate as to consider it again.

  Larson wondered how much pain Markham had endured to bring him to taking his life that way. He turned away from Cal. “Thanks for telling me,” he said. That could have been me. In my case, it was alcohol, not cancer. But the outcome would have been the same.

  Cal said. “See you in the morning.” And he left.

  When he was sure the other detective had gone, Larson closed his eyes and prayed—for George Markham and his family . . . and for himself.

  * * *

  When Sarah finished explaining to her father-in-law how Prince had come to be shot, Hunter Gordon asked only one question: “Are you okay?”