Diagnosis Murder 5 - The Past Tense (14 page)

"I'm not talking about Harry," she said. "I'm talking about whoever is killing these women. What do you think he's going to do when he finds out you're pursuing him?"

"Maybe he won't know until the moment he's arrested," I said.

"Or maybe," she said, her voice quivering, "he knows already."

Despite my best efforts, I began to shake a little bit, too.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The next morning, shortly after I arrived to begin my shift, I gathered my courage and went to see Dr. Whittington. If anyone could tell me if Tess Vigland, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen were nursing students or applicants, it was him. What I hadn't quite figured out yet was how to ask. On my way up the stairs to his office, I toyed with several possible ways to approach him.

I could say I'd been asked by each of them to write letters of recommendation but was so caught up in my work, I'd forgotten to get around to it. Was it too late to include my letter among their application materials? To which I was afraid he'd say, "Do you think I know the name of every young woman who applies to nursing school? And even if I did know these women, I'd refuse them admittance now purely on the basis of the astonishingly poor judgment they've shown by seeking you out for a recommendation. You're a disgrace to the entire practice of medicine. Go away before I pluck my eyeballs out with nails."

I could say I needed to contact the young women about babysitting and had misplaced their phone numbers. Would he mind putting me in touch with them? But I was certain he'd declare: "This is a hospital, not a babysitting service. Do you think I would violate the sanctity of the nursing school admittance process and the privacy of these vulnerable young women just so you could troll for the personal phone numbers of teenage girls? What kind of pervert are you? Get out of my sight, you miserable excuse for a doctor."

There was also the direct approach. I could say that I wanted to find out if there was a connection between their deaths and the murder of Sally Pruitt. But I knew what his response would be. "So you're a
detective
now? I applaud you for realizing that medicine is simply beyond your grasp. When you succeed in actually getting a badge, then you can ask me questions. For now, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave before my disgust for you makes me vomit my guts out."

So I arrived at his secretary's desk without the slightest idea what I was going to say. As it turned out, it didn't matter.

"If you're looking for Dr. Whittington, you can forget it," Imelda said, her face overwhelmed and literally overshadowed by her immense beehive hairdo. "He hasn't showed up or called in since yesterday."

"I know, that's why I'm here. He's sick at home," I said, surprisingly myself with my fluid improvisation. "He asked me to bring him the nursing school applications for"—I made a show of fishing around in my pockets for the list, which I then made an even bigger show of reading from—"Tess Vigland, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen."

Imelda adjusted her batwing glasses, which were secured with an elaborate chain around her neck, as if she was afraid someone might try to snatch them from her beaklike nose.

"He could have called me," she said. "I am his personal executive secretary."

"I wish he had," I said. "He treats us residents like we're his servants."

She looked at me down her long, pointed hose. "You are, young man."

Imelda went to her file cabinet and thumbed through it for a moment, her back to me. My heart was pounding. I could feel trickles of sweat rolling down my back. I wasn't sure if I was nervous about my deception or about what I might find out.

She pulled several files from the drawer and handed them to me.

There was one for each of the three women.

I tried to thank her for the files, but I couldn't seem to speak. My throat was too constricted. All I managed to do was nod a few times and back away from the desk.

One nursing student. Four nursing school applicants. All from Community General. All dead.

Someone had murdered them all.

I told Nurse Blevins that Dr. Whittington had asked me to deliver some files to his house, and I drove out to Brentwood, leaving Chet Arnold and Bart Spicer to cover for me in the ER.

I knew I was going to get in deep trouble, but I didn't care. There was a killer stalking nursing students and applicants at our hospital. Dr. Whittington was the one man who knew all the victims. He could tell me who else had access to the enrollment and applications lists and what else, if anything, the victims might have had in common.

Of course, Dr. Whittington had no reason to answer my questions and wouldn't take kindly to an underling like me demanding answers.

I didn't care anymore. What was important now was finding and stopping the murderer before anyone else was killed.

The sky thundered and crackled with an anger that matched my own, reminding me of the storm's complicity in the deaths. Would the killings end when the storm left? Or would the murderer simply find a new cover for his crimes?

Then again, I wasn't certain there weren't more killings yet to be discovered that had occurred before the storm.

I also couldn't figure out why the killer had been so careful to disguise the murders of Sally Pruitt, Muriel Thayer, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen, and yet did nothing to hide what he'd done to Tess Vigland.

It didn't make sense, unless...

He'd stopped trying to use the storm to make the killings look like accidents because there was no longer any reason to. Because he knew his crimes had already been discovered.

Because he knew about me.

And there was only one way he'd know about me.

If I already knew the killer.

Before I could scare myself too much with that thought, I arrived at Dr. Whittington's house—and had new things to worry about.

It was drizzling, the sky dark with roiling clouds. Water dripped off the eaves of the house. The drapes on the large front windows were closed. I parked behind the big, black Imperial and got out with the files in my hand.

I decided I wasn't going to play any games. I'd come straight out and tell him why I was here. Five women were dead, maybe more.

I walked past the car towards the door when something made me stop. It was that tingle again. I turned back and crouched beside the Imperial, examining the tires. They were new, with no noticeable wear at all. And although I wasn't a tire expert, I was certain of one thing.

The tread pattern was the same as the one left in the mud beside Tess Vigland's corpse. Was Dr Whittington the killer?

I thought about turning back, about finding the nearest pay phone and calling Harry Trumble.

But I didn't.

I couldn't assume that Dr. Whittington was the murderer simply because he knew all the victims and had the same tires as the killer. There were thousands of cars with the same tires.

As I got closer to his door, that little voice in my head wouldn't shut up.

But what if it was his car?

But what if he was the killer?

It would explain how the killer had managed to make the other deaths, particularly Muriel Thayer's, look like an accident. Dr. Whittington had the medical knowledge to concoct something that would fool even the best medical examiner.

Did he? And what would he do when he saw me at his door, holding the evidence that linked him to the victims?

By the time I asked myself that question, I was already at his door and the point was moot. Because there was a note thumbtacked to the door.

It was typewritten and wet. Some of the ink had run in the rain. But it was legible.

Do not enter This is a crime scene. Call the police immediately.

And it was signed,

Alistair Whittington.

Of course I didn't do what the note instructed. I took a handkerchief from my pocket, reached out, and tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked. I eased it open slowly and peered inside.

"Dr. Whittington?" I called loudly. "It's Dr. Mark Sloan."

I didn't really expect a reply, given the note. The first thing I noticed was the smell. The unmistakable odor of decay and death. I'd never smelled it before, but the recognition comes hardwired in all of us. I covered my nose and mouth with the handkerchief and ventured inside the house. I was scared, but my curiosity was stronger than my fear.

The blinds were open to the backyard, filling the house with dim gray light. Everything in the room was neat and orderly. There were no signs of a break-in or violence. I moved slowly to the kitchen.

There was a coffee mug on the kitchen table and a tiny plate with leftover crumbs from a pastry. Yesterday's newspaper was neatly folded in the center of the table.

I turned back towards the living room and noticed that the double doors to the study were ajar. Flies buzzed in and out of the narrow opening and crawled on the doors. I knew what that meant and it made my stomach churn. My whole body was damp with sweat and I was filled with dread as I cautiously approached the study.

"Hello?" I said. "Dr. Whittington?"

I called out more for the comfort of hearing my own voice than to alert anyone to my presence. If there was anyone in the house, they already knew I was there.

I eased the door open. The stench hit me with almost physical force and I could hear the incessant, furious buzzing of flies.

The study was a stark contrast to the contemporary styling of the rest of the house. The room was decorated in dark leather furniture and rich wood, the walls hung with landscape paintings and lined with bookcases containing leather-bound volumes. One of the paintings was on the floor underneath the wall safe it had once covered. The safe was open and empty, all of its contents apparently stacked neatly on the coffee table. The papers included the deeds to two homes, the doctor's life insurance policy, his will, his passport, and a stack of Blue Chip stamp books tied with a ribbon and set atop the most recent catalog. There was also some women's jewelry and some cash in U.S. and British currency.

Dr. Whittington was sitting in his big red leather desk chair, facing the door. He was sprawled facedown on his desk, a gun in his hand, blood and brain matter splattered on the curtains, the chair, and the typewriter behind him.

I turned away, gagging. The sight and the smell and the flies were too much. My whole body rebelled. I wanted to run outside. I wanted to vomit. But I wouldn't allow myself to do it. I fought against it with all my willpower. And once again, my curiosity overwhelmed my natural revulsion.

I had seen death before, many times, but nothing like this.

When I was sure I had myself under control, I made myself look back at him, to stare at Dr. Whittington until I could see him dispassionately, until I could forget that this was someone I knew and had worked with. Until he wasn't Dr. Whittington anymore.

He was a corpse. A cadaver. Just like the ones we worked on in med school.

He was wearing a white dress shirt and a cravat. I couldn't imagine what other man, besides Dr. Whittington, would wear a cravat even when relaxing alone at home.

I examined his head wound and took note of his degree of decomposition. From what I could tell, he'd been dead at least a day, perhaps longer. I didn't have any actual experience to draw on. I was basing my judgment entirely on my medical school training and what I'd learned growing up around cops.

I also determined that he'd killed himself. I was basing my judgment on the gun in his hand, the point-blank bullet wound to the head, and, most important, the suicide note under the paperweight at the edge of his desk.

The note was typewritten, with his signature in the bottom right-hand corner. Yesterday's date was in the upper right-hand corner. February 12, 1962.

I read the note.

Dear Sirs,

As you will have no doubt noticed by now, I am quite dead, my life taken by my own hand. But I'm saddened to say that my life was over long before I chose to put a gun to my temple and pull the trigger My undoing has been slow and very painful.

I've made several large investments over the years, particularly in the bomb shelter development business, which haven't lived up to my expectations. In the last few months, I found myself facing the frightening prospect of complete financial ruin. In desperation, I turned to less honorable methods of acquiring funds.

I used my position at the nursing school to coerce the young applicants into trading sexual favors in exchange for admission to our prestigious program. I also intimidated them into selling their favors to others and paying me a percentage of the income from those endeavors.

But I underestimated their guile. They attempted to blackmail me, threatening to expose my infidelity and my criminality. Not only was facing the loss of my possessions, but my family and career as well. This could not be tolerated. So I removed the threat. It was an act of self-defense.

Ultimately, however, it was futile. The bank will soon be coming to take the house, the car and the appliances. The telephone and other utilities are about to be disconnected. My crimes will also soon be revealed.

So this, my final act, is a courtesy to myself and to my family, sparing them the pain and embarrassment of my inevitable ruination.

My dear wife has left me, returning to our home in London with our son. They can now make a new start, freed from the burden of my failures.