A Caduceus is for Killing (22 page)

    Andrea couldn't believe her ears and for a moment held the phone away. If Milton had really done what the Professor said, he'd cured AIDS, not to mention all kinds of cancers. Impossible. Everyone said so. Even the latest technology only retarded certain diseases as long as the medication was taken. But to change the cells. To prevent. To cure.
    "I--I'm sorry, Professeur DuBoismier. I'm shocked. I had no idea Milton was this far advanced in his theories."
    "
Docteur
, it was no theory. He has done it. I personally worked on his samples and have them here in my laboratory. Somewhere among his papers you must find his notes, how he did it. A journal perhaps."
    "His journal? He kept one, but I haven't found anything, yet."
    "Do not worry. Milton was a good scientist. He always wrote everything down. But, you know that. Papers, notebooks, anything he could write, was his journal. He carried paper with him, always. Find his notes and you will have your answers. I make preparations to come to Omaha. There is much to do."
    Andrea recradled the receiver. What would happen, now? This new development was almost too much to believe. She had no idea Milton would ever find a cure for anything. Who could she tell? Hardwyn? After he acted so strangely about her request for the grant? He'd tried to get her out of his hair because the president pressured him. If the president had said anything at all.
    She remembered the letter Milton had written about her. Hardwyn had only read it to her; she hadn't actually seen it. Finally, when he said she could see it, it was gone. Maybe he was lying about the letter. Maybe he was lying about a lot of things. Like the cure.
    There were too many questions. She needed Gary. Her watch showed ten forty-five. They'd agreed to meet at Police Headquarters at eleven. She'd tell him all about it over lunch.
         KRASTOWITCZ ALMOST looked forward to interrogating McNaughton. He drove his Charger toward the doctor's complex. From what Andrea told him, McNaughton was an arrogant bastard with an expensive lifestyle. And they'd had a past relation-ship. Andrea didn't say much about him, except that it didn't work out. Whatever that meant these days.
    Krastowitcz loved to take these rich bastard types and show them what the real world was all about. McNaughton's apartment complex was in the Regency development, one of Omaha's wealthiest. But something was wrong with this picture. If this guy needed money so bad that he worked in the Emergency Room, why'd he live in a ritzy place like this?
    McNaughton answered the door, obviously startled to see Krastowitcz standing there.
    "Wha--Who're you?"
    "Sergeant Krastowitcz." He flashed his badge. "Omaha Police Department. I've got some questions. Mind if I come in?"
    "I've got rounds in an hour," McNaughton said.
    "From what I've been told, you're on suspension. That include rounds?"
    "That bitch. Can't she keep her mouth shut?"
    "You know, McNaughton, statements like that don't make you look real good."
    "All right, Sergeant." McNaughton sneered. "Come in."
    Krastowitcz entered the spacious apartment and surveyed his surroundings: thick leather chairs, oak tables, crystal. Doctors must have a natural thing for leather.
    "Make it short. I do have rounds. Maybe not at Dorlynd, but my medical license wasn't suspended, only my training."
    Krastowitcz pulled his thoughts to the present.
    "You've been observed by others--"
    "Dr. Pearson."
    "I said others, Dr. McNaughton. That means more than one. They confirmed that you and Grafton had some problems."
    "We had a confrontation."
    "Over suspected cocaine abuse?"
    "That's unfounded gossip. Grafton acted on a rumor. He had no proof."
    "Were you using?"
    "Sure, I'd be an idiot if I said I hadn't tried it, but plenty of Dorlynd medical personnel use coke. I'm just the one Grafton tried to nail."
    There was an underlying evil personality to Grafton. In every investigation, things weren't always what they seemed. That's why Krastowitcz loved police work so much. "Why do you say that?"
    "Because he resented the fact that I'd complained about him to the Dean."
    "Hardwyn?"
    "No. Dr. Radenauer, Associate Dean for Academic Affairs. We're supposed to go to him when we've got problems with supervisors."
    "What problems?"
    "Grafton made some pretty suggestive remarks to me."
    "Suggestive? How so?" God forbid, the guy would offer up any information on his own. Krastowitcz's already short fuse burned dangerously.
    "You know. . .the kind of remarks a guy makes. . .sexual harassment."
    "I wouldn't know." No man ever wanted Krastowitcz's body, or maybe none had guts enough to ask for it. "You sure?"
    "He wanted me to come over to his apartment and discuss his research project."
    "That's suggestive?"
    "Then he asked what kind of wine I liked and if I liked classical music. He said he'd make us a really special meal and then we'd get down to business."
    "So?"
    "I never expressed any interest in research. Especially not to him. I keep a low profile. The last thing I want is some boring research project. I came to Dorlynd to be a clinician and make money. Besides, I moonlight at other Emergency Rooms. I don't have time for research. The bottom line, Sergeant, is that I'm not gay and the thought of Grafton sickened me."
    "So, what did you do?"
    "Basically I told him that. It got pretty ugly and he threw me out of his office. I told him to lay off me or I'd go to the Dean. He laughed and said go ahead. The next day I was suspended for suspected drug abuse. That's when I went to Radenauer."
    "What did he say?"
    "He was sympathetic, said he'd check it out. Then Grafton was dead. That's all there was to it."
    "I'll check your story out with Radenauer."
    "Go ahead. I've got nothing more to hide than half the faculty at Dorlynd. They've all got skeletons in their exam rooms."
    "What's the problem between you and Dr. Pearson?"
    "I can't stand her. That's all."
    "Rumor has it that you two were involved during your internship year."
    "So?"
    "What happened?"
    "Not only is it none of your business, Sergeant, but she's a conniving bitch. Maybe you'd better check her out. She seemed awfully close to Grafton. Kind of unnatural, if you ask me. She was always sucking up, wanting to be included in everything. All she wanted was that lousy faculty position. Can you believe that?" He chuckled. "She'd do anything for it. Maybe even kill for it. The grapevine said she was having problems with Grafton, too."
    "Problems?"
    "Seems Grafton didn't think she was as great as she thought she was. He actually blocked her faculty appointment, or something like that. I don't know all the details."
    "What about Dr. Pearson and the Dean?"
    "Now there's a cute couple. The Dean should've thrown her out a long time ago. But he's a pretty good guy and has a soft spot when it comes to her. He takes all the flack for everything."
    "Where'd you hear that?"
    "Listen, Sergeant, there's an old rule: get to know the secretaries well, and you'll know everything that goes on. I've been dating Hardwyn's secretary for a year, now. Teresa's a nice gal and keeps me informed."
    "Haven't you ever heard the old saying, `Don't shit where you eat?'" Krastowitcz eyed McNaughton with growing disgust. Not only did McNaughton still carry a torch as evidenced by his jealousy of Andrea, but he wasn't above using anyone or anything to get what he wanted.
    "Whatever works, Sergeant."
    "Don't leave town," Krastowitcz said and rose. "I may have some more questions."
    "Sure, whatever. . .." McNaughton mumbled, closing the door.
    Krastowitcz hurried to his car. McNaughton was a pompous asshole, but he was no killer. Of that, Krastowitcz had been convinced. Now what? The priest, maybe?
         THE DRIVE BACK to Dorlynd was a hot one. His sport coat stuck to his back and sweat streamed down his face. Mopping his brow with his already damp handkerchief, Krastowitcz didn't relish talking to Father Jamison, again, but Radenauer confirmed McNaughton's story and now the investigation was narrowed down to two people. The priest and the lab assistant. Must be a clue there, somewhere, and he was sure it involved those two. Again, he went to the priest's quarters and asked for Jamison.
    "I'm sorry, sir, but Father's saying Mass right now. Would you care to wait?" the receptionist asked.
    "No, I can't," he said, checking his watch. "Tell him to call the Police Division and ask for Krastowitcz. It involves Suzanne Latham. He'll understand."
    The elderly lady's eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect bow. "Oh, my goodness. Of course, sir."
    Well, he'd certainly frightened a few years off that woman and she was already older than dirt.
         PETER MUELLER wasn't at the laboratory. Krastowitcz checked out his home. Maybe he'd left town already. From the looks of it, Peter wasn't paid much. Torn screens and chipped paint adorned the once-grand two-story clapboard home. A Gold Coast area during the turn of the century, the rich and powerful of the city had lived and died in this neighborhood. But that was long before the houses had been divided and subdivided into efficiency apartments and left to rot.
    Krastowitcz pressed the buzzer. He hoped this wouldn't turn into a confrontation. Too many cops were killed this way. Letting down his guard for a minute could mean the end of a career, or a life. He'd seen it happen too many times.
    The door opened. "What?" The man wore dark circles under red-rimmed eyes and the stubble on his cheeks gave him a tired, haggard look.
    "Peter Mueller?"
    "Yeah."
    "Sergeant Krastowitcz, Omaha Police Department. I've got a few questions for you. Can I come in?"
    "Oh. . . I. . . my place is a mess. Please excuse the way it looks."
    Krastowitcz scanned the room. Peter picked up a neatly stacked sofa-pillow and nervously fluffed it. Everything was fastidiously in place. Krastowitcz figured each stray dust ball was looked on as a major catastrophe. "I only recently moved in. I used to live with. . . ." His voice trailed off and he slumped into a bean-bag folding in upon himself.
    "Milton Grafton?"
    Krastowitcz remembered those chairs being the rage in the late sixties. Peter obviously tried his best to make the shabby room look presentable. Krastowitcz was almost sorry for intruding on him.
    "I suppose you have access to all that information. We tried to keep it quiet--at least Milton did. He didn't want to jeopardize his reputation."
    "You're aware I'm investigating Dr. Grafton's murder."
    "Yeah, I know. You've been spending all your time with Pearson. Since when does she know everything?"
    "She's been cooperating with me. It'd be nice if others would, too."
    "What do you know about cooperation? You haven't been away from her for long enough to find out."
    "Beg pardon? What do you know unless you've been following her?"
    "I just know, that's all."
    This was going to be rough. "Just what was your relationship with Grafton?"
    "Why don't you say it, Sergeant? I know you had me checked out at Joey's. Was he my lover? Well, maybe he was, once. But that was over. He was much too involved in his research. We'd come to an understanding."
    "What kind--?"
    "Friendship. I was thrown. . . I moved here. . . ." His voice trailed off.
    "Explain what sort of research he was working on."
    "I didn't actually do clinical experiments; I did all his
in vitro
work." Peter hugged the pillow tighter.
    "
In vitro
?" The airless room was unnaturally warm. No air-
    conditioning. Krastowitcz's sport coat stuck to his back.
    "Test-tube experiments. Not on living tissue. I also took care of the laboratory, making schedules, managing the personnel. Six assistants were assigned a specific project and reported the information to Milton. He put it all together. Alone. He told me it was better that way."
    "What about your relationship?"
    Peter got up and paced around the room. "I never understood why he wanted to break it off. . . after all those years. He got involved with a medical student." He covered his face with his hands.
    "Student? Can you give me a name?"
    "Richard Canfield. Tall and blond. . . just the way Milton liked them."
    "Spell that, will you? And what do you mean, was?"
    "C-a-n-f-i-e-l-d."
    Krastowitcz wrote the student's name in his notebook. "Haven't seen him for a couple of weeks. Just disappeared. May-be he got tired of the relationship and went home. I don't know. Nor do I care."
    "Did you quarrel with Grafton?" Krastowitcz sought any-thing, some link that might help.
    "Sure. Everybody did. Milton wasn't exactly easy to get along with. Except with that bitch." Peter tossed the pillow on the floor and stepped over it.
    "Who?"
    "Andrea Pearson. Milton always had some sort of soft spot when it came to her."
    "Soft spot? Someone else said they didn't get along." Peter plopped down on the worn out couch.
    "They lied. Andrea was his pet. Thought she walked on water, but she was a lazy bitch. Oh, yeah. She managed his patients competently, but as far as helping him with research, she didn't do a thing. But Milton didn't care, he thought she was wonderful."
    "You're jealous of her."
    "Not in the way you think. She had his respect. They shared knowledge. I was just a lover. . . then, a simple lab tech. It never got any better."
    "What about Suzanne Latham?"
    "What about her? I don't even know her. Oh, wait. She's a friend of Pearson's. Room together or something. Why?"
    "She's dead." Krastowitcz watched for a reaction. Nothing. If this guy was the killer, he was good. "Happened last night. Where were you?"
    "Dead? My God. I--I was in the lab. Ask your friend, Andrea. She was there," he said and pulled at the fringe on his pillow. "What happened to Suzanne?"
    "Can't say. Only that it happened at Dorlynd."
    "God, that place is a regular morgue. Administrators must be going nuts keeping this one quiet. What a bunch of bastards. All they care about is their reputation."
    Peter rambled on. Krastowitcz noted it was late and he was bored. He edged his way toward the door and politely extricated himself from the apartment. He'd promised to meet Andrea at eleven and it was already eleven-fifty.