by Robin Cook
“I know,” Jack said. “Listen, I appreciate your taking the time to come out here tonight and get involved. I was afraid the Bowmans might not have reported the episode.”
“I’m always willing to do a favor for my old buddy Lou Soldano. I got the impression you guys are really tight.”
Jack nodded and smiled inwardly. He’d originally met Lou when both of them were pursuing Laurie. He felt it was a tribute to Lou’s personality that when Lou’s chances with Laurie dimmed by his own doing, he was gracious enough to become Jack’s advocate, which turned out to be key. Jack’s pursuit of Laurie had not been without its bumps, thanks to Jack’s psychological baggage.
“Which brings me to the final issue,” Liam said. He unlocked his car and rummaged in a duffel bag on the front seat. He turned to Jack and handed him a snubnose .38 Smith and Wesson. “You’d better be tight with him because this is something I don’t usually do.”
Jack turned over the revolver in his hand. It glistened in the darkness, reflecting the light coming from the Bowmans’ windows.
“You’d better have one hundred ten percent good reason to use this thing,” Liam said. “And I hope to hell you don’t.”
“Rest assured it would have to be life or death,” Jack said. “But with the girls not here, maybe I don’t need it.” He extended the revolver back toward Liam.
Liam held up his hand, palm out. “Keep it. You’ve been smacked a couple of times. This Franco sounds like he’s got a couple of screws loose. Just be sure I get it back. When are you leaving?”
“Sometime tomorrow, which is all the more reason I shouldn’t take it.”
“Take it!” Liam insisted. He handed Jack his business card before walking around the car and opening the driver’s-side door. “We can hook up when you leave or you can drop it by headquarters in a bag with my name on it. Don’t go advertising what it is!”
“I’ll be sure to be subtle,” Jack said. Then he added humorously, “It’s my middle name.”
“Not according to Lou,” Liam laughed. “But he said you were an enormously responsible guy, and that’s what I am counting on.”
With a final good-bye, Liam climbed into his car and quickly disappeared in the same direction as the Newton police.
Jack handled the gun in the darkness. It felt deceptively innocent, like the toy guns he had as a child, yet as a medical examiner, he knew its destructive potential. He’d traced more bullet tracks in cadavers than he’d care to admit, always marveling at the degree of trauma. Putting the gun in one pocket, Jack took out his cell from another. He had understandable ambivalence about calling Laurie because he knew she would be justly upset and angry over his remaining in Boston. From her perspective, his returning home Thursday, maybe even Thursday night, with the wedding at 1:30 p.m. on Friday, was ludicrous, unreasonable, and even hurtful, yet he felt powerless. He’d become ensnared in a quicksand of circumstance. After all that had happened, some of it his doing, there was no way he could just abandon Alexis and Craig. Moreover, he was genuinely intrigued because someone for some reason seriously did not want an autopsy. And as this reality tumbled around inside his brain, something new occurred to him: What about the hospital? Could something have happened at the hospital the night Patience Stanhope had been brought in that needed to be covered up? He hadn’t thought about that angle, and even though it was unlikely, it seemed a hell of a lot more likely than the outlandish concierge-medicine conspiracy idea.
With trepidation and just about every neuron in his brain associated with feeling guilty firing, Jack speed-dialed Laurie’s cell phone.
16
NEWTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Wednesday, June 7, 2006
9:55 p.m.
It’s about time!” Laurie said curtly. Jack winced. Her greeting was 180 degrees from the night before, heralding the kind of conversation he feared.
“It’s almost ten o’clock!” Laurie complained. “Why haven’t you called? It’s been eight hours since your cowardly message on my voicemail.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said as contritely as he could. “It’s been a rather strange evening.”
Although such a comment was a deliberate understatement, it was hardly the kind of sarcastic humor that Jack was capable of. He was making a conscious effort to resist the tendency that had become reflex with his devil-may-care approach to life after his family tragedy. Being careful with his vocabulary and as succinctly as possible, Jack told Laurie about the break-in, the terrorizing of the children, and the visit by the police made possible by Lou’s timely intercession. Jack then told her about Tony Fasano and his threat, as well as about Franco, including the previous day’s episode, which he had not mentioned to her the evening before.
“This is incredible!” Laurie said after a pause. Most of the anger had gone out of her voice. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve got a swollen lip and a few busted capillaries over a cheekbone, but I’ve had worse from basketball. I’m okay.”
“I’m nervous about this Franco. He sounds like a lunatic.”
“He’s been on my mind as well,” Jack said. He thought about mentioning the gun but decided it might make her more nervous.
“I’m gathering you believe Tony Fasano is behind the episode with the children.”
Jack repeated some of the conversation he’d had with Liam Flanagan.
“How are the children?”
“They seem remarkably poised, considering what they’ve been through. Maybe it has something to do with their mother being a psychologist. Alexis is terrific with them. She took them to their grandparents’, Craig’s parents’, for a few days. To give you an idea, the littlest one was together enough to empathize with me about my kids when they were saying good-bye. It took me completely by surprise.”
“She sounds precociously self-possessed,” Laurie said. “That’s a blessing for the Bowmans. Now, let’s talk about us. What’s the bottom line about you coming back here?”
“Worst case is tomorrow evening,” Jack said. “I’ll do the autopsy, write up the results, whatever they turn out to be, and give them to Craig’s lawyer. Even if I wanted to, he doesn’t think he could get me on the stand as a witness, so that’s not an issue.”
“You are cutting this mighty close,” Laurie said. “If I end up being the bride left at the altar, I’ll never forgive you. I just want you to know that.”
“I said worst case. Maybe I’ll be there in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Promise me you’re not going to do anything foolish.”
Jack could think of a lot of great retorts for that setup, but he resisted. Instead, he said, “I’ll be careful.” Then he added, to make her even more comfortable, “The Newton police have promised extra surveillance.”
Confident Laurie was reasonably assuaged, Jack extended some appropriate endearments and then said good-bye. He then made two other quick calls. He spoke briefly to Lou to explain what had happened with Liam Flanagan and to thank him for his help. He told him he’d see him at the church on Friday. Next, he called Warren and told him that not only was David a good b-ball player, but he’d also saved Jack’s ass. Jack had to hold the phone away from his ear when Warren responded. Jack told him he’d see him at the church also.
With all his calls out of the way, Jack once again took in the peaceful scene. The concave snippet of moon had moved a little higher in the sky and had cleared the black silhouettes of the trees. A few stars even twinkled in the sky despite the general nighttime glow sent heavenward from the entire Boston metropolitan area. Jack took in a big lungful of the cool, fresh air. It was bracing. In the distance, a dog barked. The serenity made him wonder what the morrow would bring. Would there be violence at the exhumation? He didn’t know, but the thought made him glad Liam had insisted he keep the gun. He patted it in his pocket. Its weighty solidness made him feel more secure, even though he knew statistics suggested the opposite. With a sense of fatalism that whatever was going to happen would happe
n no matter what he did, Jack shrugged, turned, and headed into the house.
Without Alexis and the children at home, Jack felt somewhat like an intruder. After he closed the front door, the silence of the house was almost palpable, even though he could hear Craig’s and Randolph’s muffled voices from the library. He walked into the great room and went to the refrigerator. There were plenty of fixings, and he quickly made a sandwich. He popped open a beer and took both over to the couch. Careful to keep the sound low, he turned on the TV, and after rapidly scanning the channels, he found a news broadcast. Still feeling like a stranger in a strange land, he sat back and ate.
By the time he had finished the food and most of the beer, he heard raised voices coming from the library. It was obviously a disagreement. Jack quickly turned up the TV to keep from hearing. It made him feel similar to when he’d almost been caught snooping into Craig’s doctor’s bag. A few minutes later, the front door to the house slammed hard enough for Jack to feel the vibration. A few minutes after that, Craig came into the great room. It was apparent he was fuming from the way he acted, particularly the way he threw ice cubes into an old-fashioned glass and slammed shut the glass-front cabinet door. He helped himself to a healthy dollop of scotch, then brought the drink and bottle over to the couch.
“Do you mind?” Craig asked, motioning to the couch where Jack was sitting.
“Not at all,” Jack said, wondering why he bothered to ask. Jack moved closer to the opposite end. He turned off the TV and twisted around to face his host, who’d plopped down, still holding both bottle and glass.
Craig took a large slug of his scotch and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. He was staring into the empty fireplace.
“How did the rehearsal go?” Jack asked. He felt obligated to try to have a conversation.
Craig merely laughed scornfully.
“Do you feel prepared?” Jack persisted.
“I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. But that’s not saying a whole bunch.”
“What was Randolph’s advice?”
Craig forced another laugh. “You know, the usual. I’m not supposed to pick my nose, fart too loudly, or laugh at the judge.”
“I’m serious,” Jack said. “I’d like to know.”
Craig regarded Jack. A bit of the tenseness that had been so apparent drained from his face. “The usual admonitions like I mentioned at lunch and maybe a few more. I’m supposed to avoid stuttering and inappropriate laughter. Can you believe that? Tony Fasano is going to verbally attack me, and I’m supposed to calmly let it happen. If anything, I’m supposed to look hurt and not angry so the jury will sympathize with me. Can you imagine?”
“I think it sounds reasonable.”
Craig’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Jack. “Maybe to you, but not to me.”
“I couldn’t help but hear raised voices. I mean, I couldn’t hear what it was about. Did you and Randolph disagree on something?”
“Not really,” Craig said. “He just pissed me off. Of course, that was what he was trying to do. He was playacting as if he were Fasano. You see the problem is that when I’m on the stand, I’m sworn, whereas Tony Fasano won’t be. That means he can make up and say whatever allegation he wants, and I’m supposed to have thick skin, but I don’t. I even got mad at Randolph. I’m hopeless.”
Jack watched as Craig drained his glass and then poured another drink. He knew that often the personality traits of really good clinicians like Craig made them susceptible to malpractice suits, and the same traits made them poor witnesses in their own defense. He also knew that the opposite was true: Really bad doctors made an effort at bedside manner to make up for their professional deficiencies and avoid suits, and the same doctors, if they were sued, could often offer Oscar-worthy performances on their behalf.
“It’s just not looking good,” Craig continued, more sullen than angry. “And I’m still worried Randolph is not the right guy, despite his experience. He’s so damn pretentious. As slimy as Tony Fasano is, he has the jurors eating out of his hands.”
“Juries have a surprising way of eventually seeing through the fog,” Jack said.
“The other thing that really pisses me off about Randolph is he keeps talking about the appeal,” Craig said, as if he’d not heard Jack. “That was what put me over the top right at the end of our session. I couldn’t believe he’d bring it up at that point. Of course, I know I have to think about it. Just like I have to think about what I’ll be doing with the rest of my life. If I lose, I’m sure as hell not going to stay in practice.”
“That’s a double tragedy,” Jack said. “The profession cannot afford to lose one of its best clinicians, nor can your patients.”
“If I lose this case, I’m never going to be able to look at a patient without worrying about being sued and having to go through this kind of experience again. This has been the worst eight months of my life.”
“But what would you do if you don’t practice? You’ve got a young family.”
Craig shrugged. “Probably work for big pharma in some capacity. There are lots of opportunities. I know several people who have gone that route. The other possibility is managing somehow to do my research full-time.”
“Could you really do that sodium-channel work full-time and be content?” Jack questioned.
“Absolutely. It’s exciting stuff. It’s basic science yet has immediate clinical application.”
“I suppose big pharma is interested in that arena.”
“Without doubt.”
“Switching subjects,” Jack said. “While I was outside saying good-bye to everyone, I had a thought that I wanted to run by you.”
“About what?”
“About Patience Stanhope. I’ve got the whole case file, which I’ve read over several times. It includes all your records, but the only thing from the hospital is the emergency-room sheet.”
“That’s all there was. She was never admitted.”
“I know that, but there’s no labwork other than what is mentioned in the notes, and no order sheet. What I’m wondering is whether a major mistake could have occurred at the hospital, like the wrong drug given or a large overdose. If so, whoever was responsible could be desperate about covering up their tracks and be more than happy you are set up to take the fall. I know it’s a theory somewhere out there in left field, but it’s not as far out as the conspiracy idea. What’s your take? I mean, it’s clear from what happened here this afternoon to your children that someone is very, very against my doing an autopsy, and if Fasano is not to blame, the reason has to involve something other than money.”
Craig stared off for a minute, mulling over the idea. “It’s another wild but interesting thought.”
“I assume that during discovery all the pertinent records from the hospital were obtained.”
“I believe so,” Craig said. “And an argument against such a theory is that I was there with the patient the whole time. I would have sensed something like that. If there’s a major overdose or the wrong drug, there’s usually a marked change in the patient’s status. There wasn’t. From the time I first saw her at the Stanhope residence until she was pronounced, she just faded away, unresponsive to anything we did.”
“Right,” Jack said. “But maybe the idea is something to be kept in mind when I get to do the autopsy. I was planning on a toxicology screen regardless, but if there’s a chance of an overdose or the wrong drug, it’s more critical.”
“What does a toxicology screen pick up?”
“The usual drugs, and even some unusual ones if they have high enough concentrations.”
Craig polished off his second drink, eyed the scotch bottle, and thought better of pouring a third. He stood up. “Sorry not to be a better host, but I have a date with my favorite hypnotic agent.”
“It’s bad news mixing alcohol with sleeping pills.”
“Really?” Craig questioned superciliously. “I never knew that!”
“See you in t
he morning,” Jack said. He felt Craig’s provocative comment did not deserve a response.
“Are you worried about the bad guys coming back?” Craig asked in a taunting tone.
“I’m not,” Jack said.
“Me neither. At least not until after the autopsy is done.”
“Are you having second thoughts?” Jack asked.
“Of course I’m having second thoughts, especially with you telling me the chances of finding something relevant are small and Randolph saying it’s not going to influence the trial irrespective of what’s found, because it won’t be admissible.”
“I said the chances of finding something were small before someone broke into your house warning you not to allow me to do it. But this isn’t an argument. It’s up to you and Alexis.”
“She’s set on it.”
“Well, it’s up to you guys. You have to tell me, Craig. Do you want me to do it?”
“I don’t know what to think, especially after two double scotches.”
“Why don’t you just give me your final word in the morning,” Jack said. He was losing patience. Craig was not the easiest guy to like, even without two double scotches.
“What kind of person would be willing to terrorize three young girls to make a point?” Craig asked.
Jack shrugged. It was the kind of question that didn’t need an answer. He said good night, and Craig did the same before walking unsteadily out of the room.
While staying on the sofa but leaning his head way back and hyperextending himself, Jack could just catch a glimpse of Craig slowly mounting the stairs. It seemed to him Craig was already evidencing a touch of alcohol-induced dyskinesia, as though he didn’t quite know where his feet were. Always the doctor, Jack wondered if he should check on Craig in the middle of the night. It was a question with no easy answer, since Craig would not take kindly to such solicitousness, with its implication of neediness, an anathema to him.
