Devil's Waltz (12 page)

“Well, good for you. That makes you all-American, doesn’t it?”

“Guess so,” I said, smiling. “Was Chip ever in the service?”

“Chip?” The idea seemed to amuse her. “No.”

“How’d the two of you meet?”

“At college. I did a year at WVCC, after R.T. school. Took Soc One-oh-one and he was my teacher.”

Another look at Cassie. Still busy with the house. “Do you want to do your techniques now?”

“It’s still a little soon,” I said. “I want her to really trust me.”

“Well… I think she does. She loves your drawings — we saved all the ones she didn’t destroy.”

I smiled. “It’s still best to take it slow. And if she’s not having any procedures, there’s no need to rush.”

“True,” she said. “For all that’s happening here, I guess we could go home right now.”

“Do you want to?”

“I always want to. But what I
really
want is for her to get
better
.” Cassie glanced over and Cindy lowered her voice to a whisper again: “Those seizures
really
scared me, Dr. Delaware. It was like…” She shook her head.

“Like what?”

“Like something out of a movie. This is terrible to say, but it reminded me of
The Exorcist
.” She shook her head. “I’m sure Dr. Eves will get to the bottom of whatever’s going on, eventually. Right? She said we should stay at least one more night, maybe two, for observation. It’s probably for the best, anyway. Cassie’s always so healthy
here
.”

Her eyes moistened.

“Once you do go home,” I said, “I’d like to come out and visit.”

“Oh, sure…” Unasked questions flooded her face.

“In order to keep working on the rapport,” I said. “If I can get Cassie totally comfortable with me when she’s not having procedures, I’ll be in a better position to help her when she does need me.”

“Sure. That makes sense. Thank you, that’s very kind. I… didn’t know doctors still made house calls.”

“Once in a while. We call them home visits now.”

“Oh. Well, sure, that would be great. I really appreciate your taking the time.”

“I’ll call you after you’re discharged and set up an appointment. Why don’t you give me your address and phone number?”

I tore a sheet out of my datebook and handed it to her along with a pen.

She wrote and handed it back.

Fine, round hand, light touch.

Cassie B. Jones’s house:
19547 Dunbar Court
Valley Hills, Ca.

A phone number with an 818 area code.

“That’s out at the north end of Topanga Boulevard,” she said. “Near the Santa Susanna Pass.”

“Pretty good ride to the hospital.”

“Sure is.” She wiped her eyes again. Bit her lip and tried to smile.

“What is it?” I said.

“I was just thinking. When we come in, it’s always the middle of the night and the freeway’s clear. Sometimes I hate the night.”

I squeezed her hand. Her fingers were slack.

I released them, looked at the paper again, folded it and put it in my pocket.

“Cassie B.,” I said. “What does the B. stand for?”

“Brooks — that was my maiden name. It’s sort of a tribute to Aunt Harriet. It’s not exactly feminine, I guess. Brooke with an
e
would have been more of a girl’s name. Like Brooke Shields. But I wanted to remember Aunt Harriet.” She glanced sideways. “What’re they doing now, Cass? Cleaning up the dishes?”

“Dih.”

“Good!
Dishes!
”

She got up. I rose too. “Any questions before I go?”

“No… I don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

“Sure. Great. Cass? Dr. Delaware’s leaving. Say bye-bye?”

Cassie raised her eyes. Each hand clutched a plastic doll.

I said, “Bye-bye, Cassie.”

“Bah-bah.”

“Great!” said Cindy. “That was really great!”

“Bah… bah.” The hands clapped, dolls clicking upon impact. “Bah! Bah!”

I walked over to the bed. Cassie looked up at me. Shiny eyes. Neutral expression. I touched her cheek. Warm and buttery.

“Bah!” A tiny finger probed my arm, just for a second. The puncture wound was healing nicely.

“Bye, cutie.”

“Bah!”

Vicki was at the nursing station. I said hi, and when she didn’t answer, I noted my visit in Cassie’s chart, walked to Five East, and took the stairs down to the ground floor. Leaving the hospital, I drove to a gas station at Sunset and La Brea and used a pay phone to call Milo at Parker Center.

The line was busy. I tried twice more, same result, dialed Milo’s home, and listened to Rick’s sister do Peggy Lee.

One beep sounded. I talked quickly: “Hey, Mr. Blue, no emergency, but some data that might save you some time. Dad was never in the army but
mom
was — how’s that for a switch? Maiden name: Brooks, as in babbling. She spent her time at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Discharged early, due to a bout of viral pneumonia, she claims. But she blushed and got a little antsy when talking about it, so maybe it’s not the whole truth. Maybe she misbehaved and got kicked out. She’s twenty-six now, was a senior in high school when she joined up, so that gives you a time range to work with.”

Returning to the car, I drove the rest of the way home thinking about pneumonia, respiratory therapy, and a baby boy lying still and gray in his crib. By the time I arrived, I was feeling short of breath.

I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, reviewed my chat with Cindy.

People must think I’m crazy…. Sometimes
I
think I’m crazy.

Guilt? A veiled confession? Or just tantalizing me?

Waltzing.

She’d been totally cooperative until I’d suggested we leave the room.

The “overly caring” Munchausen mother? Or simply the reasonable anxiety of a woman who’s lost one child and suffered plenty with another?

I recalled the nervous surprise she’d shown when I told her of my plans for a home visit.

Something to hide? Or just surprise — a logical reaction — because doctors
didn’t
do house calls anymore?

Another risk factor: Her mother-figure, the nurse. A woman who came across, even in Cindy’s loving recollection, as something of a martinet.

A nurse who worked for a doctor but fought with him. Who disparaged physicians.

She’d guided Cindy into health care but away from nursing.

Ambivalence about doctors? About the health-care power structure? Preoccupation with sickness and treatment?

Had all that been communicated to Cindy at a young age?

Then there was the matter of her own illnesses — the flu and pneumonia that had disrupted her career plans.

Everything worked out for the best.

The blush, the yanking at her braid. The discharge was definitely a sensitive topic.

I got on the kitchen phone, obtained the 803 area code for South Carolina and dialed Information there. Fort Jackson turned out to be in Columbia. I wrote down the number and called it.

A drawling female voice answered. I asked for the base’s chief medical officer.

“You want the commander of the hospital?”

“Yes, please.”

“One moment.”

A second later: “Colonel Hedgeworth’s office.”

“This is Dr. Delaware, from Los Angeles, California. I’d like to speak with the colonel, please.”

“What was that name, sir?”

“Delaware.” I added my professional title and medical school affiliation.

“Colonel Hedgeworth is out of the office, sir. Would you care to speak with Major Dunlap?”

“That would be fine.”

“Please hold.”

Half a dozen beats, then another drawling voice. Male baritone: “Major Dunlap.”

“Major, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, from L.A.” I repeated my credentials.

“Uh-huh. What can I do for you, Doctor?”

“We’ve been doing some pilot research — contagion patterns of viral epidemics, influenza and pneumonia, specifically — in relatively closed environments such as prisons, private schools, and military bases. Contrasting it with control groups in the general population.”

“Epidemiological research?”

“We’re working out of the Pediatrics department. Still in the process of assembling a preliminary data base, and Fort Jackson came up as a possible target site.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. Long pause. “Have you got a research grant on this?”

“Not yet, just some preliminary seed money. Whether or not we apply for full funding depends on how the data base shapes up. If we do write a proposal it would be as a collaborative effort — the target sites, plus us. We’d carry all the overhead, would just need access to facts and figures.”

He chuckled. “We give you our stats and you put our names on any papers you write?”

“That would be part of it, but we’d always be open to scientific input.”

“What med school was that?”

I told him.

“Uh-huh.” Another laugh. “Well, I guess that would be pretty attractive, if I still cared about that kind of thing. But yeah, sure, I guess you can put our names down, for the time being — conditionally, no commitment. Got to check it with Colonel Hedgeworth, though, before I finalize anything.”

“When will he be back?”

He laughed again. “
She’ll
be back in a couple of days. Give me your number.”

I gave him my home exchange, saying, “That’s a private line, easier to reach.”

“And what was your name?”

“Delaware.”

“Like in the state?”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re with Pediatrics?”

“Yes,” I said. Technically true, but I hoped he wouldn’t delve too deeply and find out I had a clinical appointment but hadn’t lectured in years.

“Fine,” he said. “Get back to you soon as I can. If you don’t hear from me in, say, a week — call back.”

“Will do, Major. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“In the meantime, though, if you could give me one bit of information, I’d appreciate it.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you recall any epidemics of either influenza or pneumonia at your base during the last ten years?”

“Ten years? Hmm. I haven’t been here that long. We did have a meningitis outbreak a couple of years ago, but that was bacterial. Very nasty.”

“We’re limiting the inquiry to viral respiratory illnesses.”

“Well,” he said, “I guess the information’s somewhere — hold on.”

Two minutes passed.

“Captain Katz, how can I help you?”

I repeated my request.

“That far back wouldn’t be on our computer,” he said. “Can I get back to you on that?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Another exchange of numbers.

I put the receiver down, clogged with frustration, knowing the information was on someone’s hard drive or floppy disc, accessible, instantly, at the push of the right button.

Milo didn’t call back until four.

“Been trying to keep up with your Joneses,” he said. “The coroner has a death form on file for the first kid. Charles Lyman Jones the Fourth. Nothing suspicious — sudden infant death syndrome, certified by your friend Stephanie and backed up by a Rita Kohler, M.D.”

“She’s the head of the General Pediatrics division. Stephanie’s boss. She was originally their doctor, was out of town when Chad died.”

“Uh-huh. Well, it all looks kosher. Now, in terms of the parents, here’s what I’ve got so far. They live out in the West Valley and pay their property taxes on time — lots of taxes, ’cause they own lots of property. Fifty parcels.”

“Fifty? Where?”

“Right where they live — the entire surrounding tract is theirs. Not bad for a college teacher, huh?”

“College teacher with a trust fund.”

“No doubt. Other than that, they seem to live pretty simple and straight. Charles Lyman the Third drives a 1985 Volvo 240 four-door, received a speeding ticket last year and two parking citations, all paid. Cindy Brooks Jones drives a Plymouth Voyager van and is pure as the driven snow, infraction-wise. Ditto your surly nurse, if she’s Victoria June Bottomley, DOB 4/24/36, with an address in Sun Valley.”

“Sounds like her.”

“So far, Beaver Cleaverland.”

“You obviously didn’t get my message.”

“No. When and where?”

“Around eleven. I left it with Rick’s sister.”

“I didn’t get any emergency call.”

“That’s ’cause I did a
one
beeper,” I said. “Respecting your business procedures.” I recounted the suspicions my talk with Cindy had aroused and my call to South Carolina.

“Joe Sleuth,” he said. “Just can’t control yourself.”

“Hey, with your fees, I figured anything I could do myself would be a bargain.”

He grunted. “
Knowing
me is a bargain. Pneumonia, huh? So what’re you saying? Her lungs clog, it messes her plans up, so she fucks up her kids’ lungs — whatchacallit, projecting?”

“Something like that. On top of that, she was trained in respiratory therapy.”

“Then why would she move away from respiratory stuff? Why the stomach problems and the seizures?”

“I don’t know, but the facts remain: Lung sickness disrupted her life. And/or gave her a lot of attention.”

“So she passed it on to the kids in order to get more attention for herself? Or got
mad
at being sick and took it
out
on the kids?”

“Either. Neither. Both. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just blowing air — no pun intended.”

“That comment about being nuts. You think she suspects she’s under watch?”

“It’s possible. Or maybe she was just playing around with me. She’s on edge, but who wouldn’t be, with a child constantly sick? That’s the problem with this whole case — anything I see can be explained several different ways. What does stick in my mind is the way she blushed and fiddled with her hair when she talked about the army. I’m wondering if the pneumonia story could be a cover for a psychiatric discharge or something else she doesn’t want coming out. I’m hoping the army can confirm it, one way or the other.”

“When’s the army gonna call you back?”

“The guy I spoke to didn’t commit himself. Said their health records that far back aren’t computerized. Would health data be included in the military data banks Charlie’s hacked into?”