Head Case

by Michael Wiley

  ‘I got the chainsaw in another trade,’ Rodman said. ‘I hustle. If there’s money in it, I’m interested. Is there something wrong with the gun?’

  ‘Who’d you trade with?’ Peters said.

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  Johnson said, ‘Some liquor stores in Beverly got robbed a couple months ago. In the last one, the owner pulled a baseball bat. The robber shot a hole in a bottle of Patrón Silver.’

  ‘Top shelf,’ Peters said. ‘I drink it, and I don’t even like tequila.’

  ‘The investigating officers ran the slug through the Ballistic Information Network,’ Johnson said. ‘When we pulled the slug out of Renshaw we put it in the database too. Guess what?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Perfect match,’ Johnson said. ‘Who’d you trade with?’

  Rodman looked like he’d be sick. ‘Anyone hurt in the robberies?’

  Johnson shook her head. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Who’d you get the gun from, Rodman?’ Peters asked again.

  Rodman sucked in a breath. ‘The fact that you’re asking tells me there was video at the liquor store – and I wasn’t in the video.’

  ‘Little guy about a quarter your size,’ Peters said. ‘Maybe an eighth. No family resemblance. But you’re both too quick with a trigger finger.’

  ‘DeMarcus saved my life,’ Kelson said.

  Peters and Johnson spoke at once: ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I don’t know the guy,’ Rodman said. ‘It was someone on the street who wanted to trade.’

  Now Johnson held back the laugh. ‘Because what? A lot of assholes on the street want a chainsaw?’

  ‘I don’t know him,’ Rodman said.

  Peters looked like he would try to push past him into the apartment. ‘You’re lying.’

  Kelson heard it too. ‘Yep.’

  Rodman shot him a look.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You know how this works,’ Johnson said. ‘Your chainsaw friend shoots when a store owner pulls out a baseball bat, he’s going to hurt someone. Maybe next time he gets unlucky and kills a clerk. I guess you’re willing to live with that.’

  ‘Time for you to leave,’ Rodman said. His voice was calmer and lower than before.

  ‘The DA made a bad decision on you,’ Johnson said. ‘You know this doesn’t go away.’

  ‘Nothing ever does,’ Rodman said, and he closed the door.

  He stood there, a big man holding it all in. He gave Peters and Johnson time to descend the stairs to the street. He caught his breath and recovered an expression of peace.

  Then he said to Kelson, ‘It was—’

  ‘Don’t,’ Kelson said. ‘I wish you could. But if you do, you know I can’t keep it to myself. If they ask, I’ll tell.’

  Rodman shook his head and brushed past him into the kitchen. He returned with the pot of coffee, gestured at a chair for Kelson to sit, and poured the cups. His hands never shook. As if he didn’t have problems of his own, he said, ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘When the cops shot your brother, how close did you come to giving up?’ Kelson said.

  ‘I suppose I did give up. I quit the academy. I blew off my plans to be a cop. My life fell apart for a while. Depending on who’s judging, I still don’t have it back together. You planning to give up?’

  ‘Nancy thinks I should quit. She thinks I’m going to get hurt worse – or killed. She thinks it’s unfair to Sue Ellen.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rodman said, ‘it probably is.’

  ‘You think I should quit too?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I’ve gotten shot twice. Feels like pushing my luck. Three times and I’m out, right? I don’t even know what inning it is.’

  ‘It’s a long game,’ Rodman said. He smiled. ‘Unless it isn’t.’

  ‘I got out of the hospital yesterday morning, and then I slept all day. I went out last night. I went to places I know – places that know me – but everything seemed inside out.’

  ‘You’re recovering,’ Rodman said. ‘It takes a while. You know that.’

  ‘What if inside really is out? What if everything that seemed to make sense makes no sense?’

  ‘Then, I don’t know,’ Rodman said. ‘Maybe you’re screwed. Like the rest of us.’

  They spent another twenty minutes drinking coffee and deciding nothing, resolving no problems, coming to no conclusions.

  Then Kelson got up, and Rodman opened the door and held it for him. Winter air breathed into the apartment from the landing.

  Rodman said, ‘It was Cindi’s baby brother, man. His gun. Sixteen years old, kid’s out of control. He’s going to kill someone or get himself killed. I don’t know if Cindi can handle that. I don’t know if I can.’

  Kelson stared at his big friend’s gentle face. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know. Me too. Screwed, huh?’

  ‘Screwed.’ Kelson turned and descended a stair. Then he looked back. ‘What did he want with a chainsaw?’

  Rodman gave a bitter laugh. ‘I didn’t trade him a damned chainsaw. I took the gun from him and told him if I ever saw him with another I’d beat the hell out of him.’ The big man’s eyes were moist.

  Kelson said, ‘Love’s hard.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rodman said, ‘it’s a bitch.’

  TEN

  Dr Jeremy Jacobson offered Kelson a chair in his office, one floor up from the ICU at Clement Memorial Hospital. A frosty window faced the Chicago River. Stacks of manila folders rose from the desk. A bookcase looked as if someone had swept binders, medical guides, and regulation pamphlets on to the floor and then stuffed them back on the shelves in a hurry. A bunch of framed photos of the doctor’s two adult sons collected dust on a bureau, on the desk, and alongside degrees and awards on the walls.

  Kelson glanced at the clutter. ‘Enough to give you a headache even without a brain injury.’

  ‘Overworked and overwhelmed,’ the doctor said cheerfully. He checked his watch. ‘What can I do for you?’

  When Kelson arrived at the hospital after leaving Rodman’s apartment, he’d asked to talk to Dr Madani.

  The information desk clerk made a call and told Kelson, ‘She’s off today.’

  He asked if anyone else in the ICU was available to talk.

  ‘Regarding?’

  ‘Recent patient deaths,’ Kelson said.

  The clerk made another call and, to Kelson’s surprise, sent him up to the ICU chief himself.

  Kelson sat across from Dr Jacobson and said, ‘Patricia Ruddig, Josh Templeton, Daryl Vaughn.’

  Jacobson laced his fingers on top of the papers on his desk. ‘Have you scheduled an appointment with your therapist yet?’ Cheerful.

  ‘Dr P? We’re booked for tomorrow. Why?’

  ‘I’ve sent the records from your stay here. I’ll forward a note that you came back today.’

  Kelson tried to see through the doctor’s cheer. ‘You say that like a threat. If so, I don’t get it.’

  ‘No threat, but concern, Mr Kelson. You spent seventy-two hours here. You were unconscious for forty-eight of those hours. You’ve been out for twenty-four hours, and now here you are again, asking questions about some unfortunate patients – whose misfortunes are private and have nothing to do with you, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘This is what I do,’ Kelson said. ‘Professionally.’

  ‘You’re a professional lurker? You go around asking about confidential medical matters?’ Jacobson had the kind of face hospitals put on brochures. Assured. Clean. Pleasant.

  ‘Scrubbed,’ Kelson said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I ask questions. People pay me to get answers.’

  ‘Someone paid you to ask questions about these patients?’

  ‘Not exactly – not yet. Probably not at all. Only if you give me reason to think they should.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  Kelson nodded. ‘I get that a lot. What happened to th
e lady with the appendix?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The one who died yesterday. She either got her cefoxitin or she didn’t. She went into septic shock and had a heart attack.’

  Jacobson’s cheer fell. ‘Did Wendy Thomas hire you to ask about these patients?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What does not exactly mean?’

  ‘It means she didn’t hire me.’

  The doctor sighed. ‘I think you’re being less than truthful.’

  ‘Never,’ Kelson said.

  Jacobson unlaced his fingers, then laced them again. ‘Let’s say Ms Thomas administered the antibiotics. Her failure to record them on the chart opens us to charges of malpractice. We can’t afford to be liable.’

  ‘Can’t afford to be or aren’t?’

  ‘The other patients suffered from a number of ailments, some of which we were aware of when we admitted them, some of which we weren’t. We handled them with the best care we were capable of. Sometimes, sadly, the best care isn’t enough. Patients die. If doctors tell you they get used to it, they’re either liars or sociopaths. Every death hurts. But death is a fact. Patients die.’

  ‘See,’ Kelson said, ‘that’s all I wanted to hear you say.’ He stood up.

  Jacobson seemed surprised. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Is there something more?’

  ‘No,’ the doctor said. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Kelson glanced around the messy office. He smiled at one of the pictures of two young men on the doctor’s desk. ‘Proud father.’

  ‘What? Oh – sure. Yes.’

  ‘Me too. A proud father. A daughter. No sons.’

  ‘Right. Complicated family situations,’ Jacobson said. He seemed distracted. ‘I don’t necessarily mean yours. Mine – their mother died when they were teenagers. They’re all I have.’

  ‘It’s good to have something,’ Kelson said. ‘Somebody.’

  Jacobson smiled but with a kind of sadness. ‘Hard to live otherwise.’

  Kelson nodded. ‘All right then.’ He moved toward the door.

  ‘The woman who died yesterday,’ Jacobson said. ‘She was thirty-nine. Diabetic. She suffered kidney failure two years ago. She was in very poor health – perhaps poorer than we realized when she came in.’

  ‘OK,’ Kelson said.

  ‘If you speak with Wendy Thomas, you can tell her we’ll contact her to arrange her return. She’s a good nurse. We’re all overworked here. Sometimes we’re overwhelmed. I’m certain she did her job.’

  ‘She’ll be glad to hear that,’ Kelson said.

  Kelson passed a dozen closed office doors, then rode the elevator down a floor to the ICU.

  In the central room, an oversized clock hung on a wall. The vinyl flooring looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. A hospital orderly with a blond ponytail sat at a circular computer station. She wore white-framed glasses on top of her head and a white sports watch on her wrist. Her desk was littered with clipboards and taped-up schedules and reminders.

  Kelson asked her, ‘Could you point me to the medical supply room?’

  ‘Of course, it’s—’ She caught herself. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘I need to check the cefoxitin register. I’ll be in and out.’

  She slid her glasses down to her nose and eyed him. ‘Who are you?’

  He reached his good hand across the desk. ‘Sam Kelson.’

  ‘Could I see ID?’

  He fished out his wallet and showed her his driver’s license.

  ‘OK, Samuel Kelson,’ she said, ‘I need hospital ID.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t work here. I checked out of room sixteen C yesterday. I want to see the cefoxitin for some friends, if you can call them that.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Hold on a moment.’ She dialed the desk phone, then told the person on the other end, ‘I have a gentleman here who needs assistance.’ She smiled at Kelson as she listened. ‘Yes,’ she said, and ‘Yes’ again. She hung up and tapped a finger on the desk.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kelson said.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘I called security.’

  ‘Oh, I wish you didn’t do that. I’m doing a favor for Jose and Wendy.’

  The orderly’s expression changed. ‘Wendy? You know her?’

  ‘We met last night. Jose and I go back a little further.’

  ‘What they did to her is wrong.’

  ‘Yeah? Why is that?’

  ‘Wendy had nothing to do with the deaths.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wendy did nothing wrong.’

  ‘No – the deaths part. Plural.’

  ‘I guess there’ve been a couple lately. A few. Enough to worry the doctors and administrators.’

  ‘That’s not what I wanted to hear,’ Kelson said.

  ‘It happens sometimes. A cluster. But it isn’t Wendy’s fault.’

  ‘Patricia Ruddig, Josh Templeton, Daryl Vaughn?’ Kelson said. ‘The lady yesterday morning.’

  ‘Right – Jennifer Kowalski.’ The orderly looked unhappy.

  A bell rang, and the elevator doors opened. A strong-jawed man in his mid-twenties got off and headed for the computer station.

  ‘It’s OK, Rick,’ the orderly said before he got to them.

  Kelson gave him a look. ‘I’ve seen you before.’

  The man stared back. His eyes moved from Kelson’s hands and arms – the good side and the bad – to his legs, then to his face, assessing risk.

  ‘It’s OK,’ the orderly said again. ‘It was my mistake.’

  But the man squared off with Kelson – close enough for Kelson to read his nametag. Richard Jacobson. Director of Security. Clement Memorial Hospital.

  Kelson said, ‘The pictures in your dad’s office. You’re Dr Jacobson’s boy?’

  Richard Jacobson grimaced at the word boy. ‘Could I see some ID, sir?’

  Kelson fished out his wallet again. ‘She didn’t like my driver’s license. You think you’ll like it any better?’

  The man grimaced at the license too. ‘What business do you have here, Mr Kelson?’

  Kelson gestured at his bandaged arm. ‘My bills will probably pay your salary for the next three years.’

  The orderly said again, ‘It was my mistake, Rick.’

  The man ignored her and handed Kelson back his license. ‘Are you currently a patient?’

  ‘Nope. You kicked me out in the cold yesterday.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time to return there?’

  Kelson put his license back in his wallet, fingered a business card from it, and dropped it on the circular desk. ‘Thanks,’ he said to the orderly.

  As Richard Jacobson escorted him to the elevator, Kelson asked, ‘How’s it work? Your dad’s a big cheese doctor and he gets you a summer job when you’re a kid – then all of a sudden you’re head of hospital security?’

  ELEVEN

  As the January afternoon darkened, Kelson turned on his laptop in his office. He took his Springfield pistol from the bottom drawer, popped out the magazine, checked that it was loaded, snapped it back in, and set the gun on the desktop next to the computer.

  The ICU orderly said the lady who died after going into septic shock was named Jennifer Kowalski. Kelson found her with a Google search. Her Facebook profile picture showed a very large woman. ‘Bigger than very large,’ Kelson said. ‘To tell the truth. Which I do. Always.’ Over the years, the woman had put up hundreds of photos of a bulldog named Jezebel. Now her sister and friends posted distraught remembrances of her. No one mentioned her diabetes. No one mentioned her earlier kidney failure. ‘But why would they?’

  Kelson wrote down the sister’s name – Mary Kowalski.

  He glanced at the Springfield pistol. ‘The point is, what?’ He fought off the impulse to check the magazine again.

  Another link showed that Jennifer Kowalski worked as a dispatcher for a tow truck company called Lakeside Tow. Kelson copied the contact information.

  Her name
also appeared on the member roster of the Silver Bells – a hand bell ensemble – and there she was in a photo taken last month by the big Christmas tree in Daley Plaza, shaking bells with eleven other women.

  Seven years ago, she was a complainant in a civil lawsuit involving a two-flat in the Andersonville neighborhood.

  He called the phone number for Lakeside Tow. It rang four times and kicked to a recording. A man’s gruff voice promised speedy service twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five days a year, all weather – a fleet of trucks at your beck and call – leave a number and a driver will call right back. Kelson hung up.

  He returned to the Silver Bells homepage and clicked the contact link. It included no phone number but offered boxes he could check if he wanted information about auditioning, booking concerts, buying CDs, donating to the ensemble, or receiving an e-newsletter. It also had a section for comments. He typed Jennifer Kowalski’s name, followed by five question marks. Then he deleted the comment and closed the page.

  He glanced at his gun. He grabbed it from the desk, popped the magazine, checked it, and slapped it back in. He set the pistol down and turned to the window. Outside, the wind was blowing, and something was flapping against the building side. In another twenty minutes, the sky would be black. ‘Right,’ he said.

  He turned off the laptop, picked up the pistol again, and said, ‘Patricia Ruddig, Josh Templeton, Daryl Vaughn – and Jennifer Kowalski.’ He went to the window, holding the gun.

  He couldn’t see what was flapping.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  He went back to the desk and put the pistol in its drawer. ‘Start at the beginning,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow.’

  He rode the elevator to the street and drove to Nancy’s house in the dark. Sue Ellen was waiting for him in the front room when he rang the bell.

  Until a year ago, already too old for such behavior, she would jump into his arms when he arrived at Nancy’s.

  ‘The divorce,’ Dr P said when he’d asked if he should worry about her affection. ‘And you got shot in the head. What do you expect? If we knew each other a little better, I would jump in your arms for reassurance.’

  Lately, though, Sue Ellen had started to cool as she somersaulted toward adolescence. But when he stepped inside, she came toward him as if she would run and jump. He grinned and opened his arms – the good one, the bandaged one. A troubled look flashed across her face, and she skidded to a stop. Then she grinned. ‘Dad.’ Her voice expressed all the leaping joy he remembered.