Boca Mournings

by Steven M. Forman

  “I am a very good doctor, Mr. Perlmutter,” he insisted.

  “Maybe you were once,” I said.

  “I still am,” he said, and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  “It doesn’t look that way to me,” I said.

  His eyes filled with tears and he turned away.

  “Look again,” he said, his voice cracking.

  I left his office, less sure of myself than when I arrived.

  Lou Dewey came to my office, lugging large boxes.

  “I bought you a computer, a printer, and some paper,” he said. “Now I can e-mail you instead of running over here all the time.”

  “I’m too old to learn how to use a computer,” I told him.

  Within forty-five minutes Lou had the equipment connected and functioning. Two hours later I could send e-mails, receive them, print in color, and access the Internet.

  “Let’s see you log on,” Lou challenged me.

  “A piece of cake,” I said, pushing the wrong button and shutting off the computer.

  Lou showed me how to reboot.

  “Check your e-mail,” he said when we were connected again.

  “I don’t have any e-mail,” I said. “I’ve only been online for thirty seconds.”

  “I sent you one about Dr. Cohen before I came here,” he told me.

  “Where’s it been since then?”

  “Cyberspace.”

  “I’ve never been in cyberspace,” I protested. “Will I be weightless?”

  “Clueless,” he told me. “Now log on.”

  I followed the instruction sheet. When the printer clattered to life, I jumped up, and knocked my chair over.

  “What was that?” I shouted.

  “Welcome to the computer age.” Lou patted me on the shoulder.

  “What did you learn about Dr. Cohen?” I said, taking the sheets off the printer.

  “Read it,” he said walking to the door.

  “What about Willis Psychiatric and my two-headed boy?”

  “I’m still working on it,” he said and closed the door behind him.

  I sat down and started to read.

  Ronald Cohen was born in 1939 in Polk County, an hour north of Orlando, Florida. He was the youngest of three boys. His parents were orange growers, and his two brothers worked in the family groves. Richard was the only son to go to college. He graduated the University of Florida, College of Medicine in 1965, and entered the field of obstetrics. He married a nurse he met at the Florida Hospital in Orlando. They had a son in 1968 and named him Michael Aaron.*

  Ronald Cohen’s career was meteoric. In the early ‘70s he became famous for innovations with ultrasound equipment for obstetrics. He was considered one of the most knowledgeable doctors in the field. His notoriety paved the way for the private practice he opened in Fort Lauderdale in the early ‘80s and the second office in Boca Raton a few years later. Dr. Ronald Cohen, LLC, was recognized as having the biggest and best obstetrics practice in South Florida.

  I read a long list of awards Dr. Cohen won, organizations he joined, and charities he supported. The final paragraph of the final document dated March of 1999 referenced Mrs. Celia Cohen’s long commitment to neonatal care. The article made the two of them sound like Dr. and Mrs. Mother Teresa.

  I put down the papers and rubbed my eyes. Where was the monster I expected? Where was the hubris? Where was the incompetence? And, lastly, where was the publicity after 1999? Not one article was written about him in the new millennium. Where had he been for the past six years? I reached for the last article again and reread it slowly. This time I noticed the asterisk next to Michael Aaron Cohen’s name. I went to the bottom of the page.

  *Michael Aaron Cohen died of heart failure in 1999. He was thirty-one.

  And there it was. Dr. Ronald Cohen had lost a child and when his only son died part of the father died with him; the part that cared.

  Claudette had sympathy for Cohen when I told her the story.

  “He brings children into the world but loses his own,” she said sadly.

  “Don’t feel sorry for him,” I said. “He’s done a lot of damage.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” she argued. “And maybe you put him back on track.

  “I’m trying to derail him,” I said.

  “But maybe he can still do some good?” Claudette tried.

  “It’s too late for that,” I said.

  “It wasn’t too late for Lou,” she reminded me. “Look what you did for him.”

  “Lou Dewey saved my life.”

  “And you saved his,” she said. “Now save Dr. Cohen. The world needs doctors.”

  “I’m not responsible for the world.”

  “Okay, then how about being responsible for Osceola Park,” she challenged me. “My little corner of the world. We need good doctors there.”

  “Dr. Cohen is not a good doctor anymore,” I told her.

  “You said he just stopped caring. Make him care again.”

  “I’m not a magician, Claudette,” I said.

  “You’re better than a magician,” she said. “You’re the Boca Knight.”

  How could I argue with that kind of logic?

  I called Ronald Cohen and set up a meeting with him the next morning at Patch Reef Park on the south side of Yamato. The park was adjacent to an area I had named The University of God. No marker identifies the U of G campus but the signs on the five holy buildings in a row, stretching from St. Andrews east to Military Trail told the story: Spanish River Christian Church, First Baptist Church, St. David’s Armenian Church, Temple B’Nai Israel, and St. Mark’s Greek Orthodox Church.

  Patch Reef Park, a beautiful complex of softball, baseball, and soccer fields complemented by a batting cage, two basketball courts, and a shaded playground, was right after the Greek Orthodox church, west of Military. It was a Saturday morning, and every playing surface was alive with children of all ages.

  I sat in the metal stands adjacent to one of the soccer fields and watched a girls’ team wearing red and blue East Boca All Stars shirts play against a group wearing black and gold West Boca All Stars shirts.

  Nine to ten year olds, I guessed.

  I don’t know much about soccer so I watched the dynamics of the event instead of the details of the game. I found myself trying to match the girls on the field with the parents on the sidelines. I was really getting into it when a loud whistle blew and the Boca Raton–East-West All Stars Girls’ soccer game became history in a heartbeat. Who won? Who cares?

  Suddenly Dr. Ronald Cohen was standing in front of me.

  “You look tired,” I said, noticing his red-rimmed eyes.

  “I couldn’t sleep after you called last night,” he said. “I was up all night thinking about this meeting,”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking if I should kill myself or you.”

  “Have you decided yet?” I said calmly.

  “I just did,” he said, removing a nine-millimeter hand gun from his pants pocket and pointing it at me. I checked it out. It was an M9 Beretta.

  “What are you doing with an old army handgun?” I asked calmly.

  My question surprised him. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to shoot you?”

  “No,” I said.

  He pointed the gun at his right temple. “Then maybe I’ll shoot myself so you can have my blood on your hands,” he said.

  “Be my guest,” I told him.

  He pulled the trigger. CLICK! Empty gun!

  “Do you feel better now?” I asked him.

  “You didn’t care if I killed myself or you,” he said incredulously.

  “Actually, I saw there was no clip in the gun.”

  He slumped down on the metal bench and handed me the empty gun.

  “My uncle was a marine,” he explained. “The gun was a present.”

  “You haven’t used it much, I guess.”

  “I never had it out of the box before.”r />
  “Are you suicidal?” I asked.

  “I think so,” he said, nodding his head.

  “What’s stopping you?” I asked.

  “I keep hoping I’ll wake up one morning and be the man I used to be,” he said.

  “That’s not going to happen,” I told him. “There’s only the present and the future.”

  “I don’t have a future,” Dr. Cohen sighed. “You’ll see to that.”

  “I have to stop you from hurting people,” I said without apology.

  “I understand and I’m sorry about Mrs. Blackstone,” he said.

  I saw a red spot but it faded quickly. “Saying you’re sorry is not going to do it,” I said. “What happened to you? You were a brilliant doctor once.”

  He stared off into space, probably remembering a better time. “Did you ever lose a child, Mr. Perlmutter?” he asked.

  “I never had a child,” I told him.

  “My son died from congenital heart failure when he was thirty-one years old,” Cohen said sadly. “He was born with a hole between the chambers of his heart so small it took an autopsy to find it.” He shook his head slowly. “Ironic, isn’t it? I dedicate most of my life to delivering healthy babies but my own son is born with an undetectable heart defect.”

  “Actually, I think it’s tragic,” I said. “But it’s not an excuse for malpractice.”

  “I’m not making excuses,” he said. “I’m just trying to explain why . . . I stopped being a good doctor. I stopped caring.”

  “You should have stopped practicing,” I said.

  “I needed to keep busy,” he explained. “My wife and I were having a terrible time dealing with our son’s death. I thought I could keep practicing without doing any harm.” He sighed. “Obviously, I couldn’t.”

  “Do you think you could be a good doctor again?” I asked.

  “I didn’t lose my skills,” he answered. “I lost my sense of purpose.”

  “And if you had a sense of purpose again?” I prodded him.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I have a girlfriend who looks like Halle Berry,” I told him.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “But what does that have to do with me?”

  “She wants me to help you be a good doctor again,” I explained.

  “Why?”

  “Do you know anything about Osceola Park, Dr. Cohen?” I asked him.

  “I know it’s somewhere in Delray, but that’s about it,” he said.

  “Well, you’re about to learn a whole lot more.”

  We sat in the stands and talked while three more soccer games were played. When we were done, we had a goal.

  I sat up and turned on the light next to my bed.

  “I can’t sleep,” I said.

  Claudette sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m not the man I used to be,” I said.

  “I like the man you are.”

  “I’ve lost my edge,” I complained.

  “You’re as sharp as a Cossack kinjal,” she said referring to a Russian dagger.

  “I’m like Silly Putty,” I said. “I’m getting pushed and pulled all over the place.”

  She poked my stomach. “You’re hard as a rock.”

  “Not anymore,” I complained. “I never should have given Cohen a deal. The man deserved to be punished.”

  “Maybe he’s been punished enough.”

  Maybe, maybe not.

  “And the guy who shot himself in the head outside the medical building . . .”

  “That was terrible.”

  “I should have saved him,” I said, mourning my diminishing ability more than the man’s life.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Claudette told me.

  “And Noah Paretsky?” I raved.

  Ranting is next, I promised myself.

  “What about him?” she asked.

  “Instead of turning that geek over to the police, I made a home movie with him.”

  “You said he meant well,” she recalled correctly.

  “I’m supposed to arrest criminals, not analyze them,” I said. “And Edik the Bolshevik bartender? I should have made him play Russian roulette by himself with a fully loaded gun. But I arranged a deal with him and the Ekaterinburg Mafia instead.”

  “You negotiated the release of hostages,” she defended me against myself.

  “And I should have arrested Lou Dewey, too,” I ignored her.

  “He saved your life.”

  She’s making sense. Change the subject.

  “I was wrong with the deal I made with that Nazi bastard, Randolph Buford.”

  “What you did with Buford was brilliant,” Claudette said.

  “It’s just not me,” I complained.

  “It’s the new and improved you,” she said. “The old you was a young slugger. Now you’re a veteran counterpuncher,” she told me. “You win by decisions instead of knockouts.” She kissed my cheek. “You said when an old champion slows down he has to change his style.”

  I said that?

  “Have I slowed down at everything?” I asked, rubbing her stomach.

  Hey, what’s up? Mr. Johnson stirred.

  “Right now, I’d say your timing is perfect.”

  I had a lot of things going on that were beyond my control so I took a few days off and drove to the Keys with Claudette. We went fishing off the coast of Islamorada on a charter boat. We spent a few hours bobbing in the ocean with two fat ladies from Minnesota and a father and teenage son from Tennessee. Claudette caught three bone fish. I caught the father and son looking down her blouse. The fat ladies got one grouper apiece and bad sunburns. I reeled in a Michelin tire and an Alabama license plate.

  Claudette and I had a romantic dinner at an oceanside restaurant where we drank wine and watched the sun go down. When the moon and Mr. Johnson came up, we hurried off to our room at the Surf Motel, which had a great view we didn’t see until dawn.

  I was enjoying the pre-dawn stillness on the hotel balcony the next morning when my cell phone rang. The caller ID told me it was Lou Dewey. I glanced at my watch. It was five-thirty.

  “You’re up early this morning,” I said softly, not wanting to wake Claudette.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I had an epiphany.”

  “Probably something you ate,” I told him.

  “Eddie, I’m serious,” Lou said. “I had a dream last night that I was screaming at my father the morning after he encouraged my brother to enlist in the Marines. My father kept apologizing to me and saying he couldn’t remember a thing and I just kept screaming.”

  “It was just a bad dream, Lou,” I comforted him.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Lou raised his voice. “I did scream at my father that day after he got my brother to enlist in the Marines, and my father did say he couldn’t remember anything from the night before. It actually happened . . . exactly like in my dream.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning maybe Sylvia’s vision of the two-headed boy isn’t a dream. Maybe it’s a memory.”

  “Lou, Sylvia doesn’t remember anything,” I reminded him. “She thinks Harold was her high-school sweetheart. She didn’t even go to high school. She can’t remember the first twenty years of her life . . . she can’t remember lunch sometimes . . .”

  “She remembers a two-headed boy?”

  “It’s just a dream,” I insisted.

  “What if I’m right?” Lou asked. “What if it is a memory?” he asked defensively.

  “I’ll kiss your ass.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Claudette said as she stepped out on the balcony. “Who are you romancing so early in the morning?”

  “Lou Dewey,” I told her. “He had an epiphany last night.”

  “Probably something he ate,” she said, sitting on my lap.

  Look who’s here, Mr. Johnson stirred.

  “Lou, I gotta go,” I said.

  “Will you think a
bout what I said?” he asked.

  “Later,” I told him.

  Later I was standing in the bathroom after showering. I noticed there were two mirrors in the room positioned so that I could see two of me. I admired my reflection from both angles.

  You two are looking good, I joked with my reflections and then I had my own epiphany. Holy shit! That’s it.

  I dashed from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, grabbed the phone, and raced to the balcony.

  “What’s up?” Claudette asked.

  “Lou Dewey is a genius,” I said to her as I punched in his number.

  “Does this mean you have to kiss his ass?” she asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Ask him if he’ll trade positions with me,” she suggested.

  Lou answered on the first ring.

  “Twins,” I shouted into the phone. “Sylvia was remembering twins.”

  “What?”

  “Sylvia said she dreamed repeatedly of looking up at a two-headed boy and a wicked witch. I’m betting she had older twin brothers and a crazy mother. You were right, Lou. It wasn’t a dream. It’s a memory.”

  “I can find her now,” he promised, and disconnected.

  Lou called me later that day while Claudette and I were driving back to Boca.

  “I found her,” he shouted into my ear.

  “You’re the best,” I told him. “Tell me.”

  “I searched for twin boys born between 1923 and 1927 because you said they would be older than her. I found plenty,” he said. “Then I narrowed it down to twin boys with younger sisters.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “I still had too many possibilities so I went deeper searching for twin boys with a younger sister and no father.”

  “Why no father?”

  “She had no memory of a man,” Lou explained.

  “That’s a bit of a reach,” I said.

  “I thought so, too,” he admitted. “But I started digging anyway. I hacked around every city system I could think of until I found twin boys and a younger baby sister whose father died October 29, 1929, on Wall Street.”

  “That was Black Tuesday,” I said. “The day the stock market crashed. Was this guy a jumper?”

  “No, a jumper landed on his head,” Lou said.