Diagnosis Murder 5 - The Past Tense (15 page)

I've opened my safe and left all my pertinent papers on the coffee table for you. I've also left some library books for you to return. They are due Thursday.

Sincerely yours,

Dr Alistair Whittington

I glanced back at Dr. Whittington. Everything in his life was going wrong, yet even in his last few moments, he was still trying to exercise some measure of control over it anyway. The stuffy, intimidating, very British doctor was true to his character to the very end.

Using the handkerchief, I picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the police.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The first thing Harry Trumble did upon arriving at Dr. Whittington's house was have me arrested. I was handcuffed by a police officer and driven downtown, where I was placed in a jail cell. I wasn't given the opportunity to make any phone calls—not that I would have anyway.

The confinement wasn't so bad, if you don't consider the stench of urine and sweat that permeated the walls. I'd smelled a lot worse that same morning. I was able to block it out of my mind. I spent the first two hours in custody going over all the details of the case again, this time fitting Dr. Whittington into the blanks.

Although Dr. Whittington had confessed to just about everything in his suicide note, he did it in rather broad, vague way. I wished he'd taken the time to go into a bit more detail before shooting himself. I would have liked to know exactly how he staged the murders of Muriel Thayer, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen without leaving any trace. I'm sure Dr. Barbette would also have liked an answer, especially since he would soon be facing the tiresome prospect of exhuming the corpses and conducting new autopsies.

At least there was no mystery about the mistakes Dr. Whittington made trying to disguise the murder of Sally Pruitt. The only reason I discovered that her death wasn't an accident was because of the sloppy way he dressed his victim after he drowned her. It was as if he'd been in a hurry, not paying attention to the crucial details.

With the other killings, however, he was careful and meticulous, leaving no sign at all that the deaths were anything but tragic accidents.

What had happened with Sally Pruitt that caused him to be so sloppy?

Tess Vigland's murder was even more puzzling to me. It was a vicious killing, his fury over his victim undisguised. Did he do it because he knew there was no point in going to such elaborate lengths to disguise his crimes anymore?

That didn't make a lot of sense to me. There was no downside to covering up a murder, unless he wanted people to know she'd been killed, perhaps so her gruesome demise could serve as a warning to others.

Who would those others be? Other nursing students involved in the blackmail scheme?

I thought of Joanna Pate and the kiss she gave me. Was she one of Dr. Whittington's call girls? Was she trying to seduce me that night into becoming one of her clients?

And if they were blackmailing Dr. Whittington, what was stopping them from extorting money from their other clients as well?

Despite Dr. Whittington's suicide and all that it explained, too much of what had happened was still a mystery to me for me to feel satisfied.

Perhaps I never would be.

As I pondered all the unanswered questions, I got sleepy, and so I spent the remainder of my four hours in au enjoying a nice, restful nap on the hard, flat cot.

It was late afternoon when Harry Trumble finally came down to get me, kicking the cot to wake me up. Without saying a word, he led me into an interrogation room and slammed the door. I was thankful that at least he hadn't put me in handcuffs again. I would have liked a hot cup of coffee, but I wasn't about to ask for one. He was getting far too much pleasure already out of my discomfort. The less upset I appeared, the more it would irritate him.

I sat down at the table and watched him pace for a moment. He looked tired and angry. There was also a certain resignation in his posture, a palpable sense of defeat. I tried to appear unhurried, unperturbed, and uninterested.

"Did Dr. Whittington call you and ask you to pick up those files?" Harry asked finally.

"No," I said.

"So you lied to his secretary," he said.

"Yes," I said. "I did."

"How long have you known that Dr. Whittington killed these women?"

"I didn't know," I said. "I still don't."

Harry glared at me. "He confessed in his suicide note."

"He said he removed the threat," I said. "It's not quite the same as saying 'I killed four women, maybe more.'"

"More?" Harry said.

I shrugged. "We won't know until we check out the list of nursing school applicants."

"We?" Harry roared, slamming his fist on the table, startling me.

"It's just a figure of speech," I said.

"The hell it is," Harry said. "You've been running your own rogue investigation from the start."

"So what if I have?" I said. "If I hadn't, you'd still be stomping around in the mud looking for two killers instead of one. And nobody would ever have known that Muriel Thayer, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen were murdered."

"We still don't know that," Harry said.

"They were all nursing applicants," I said. "They all knew Dr. Whittington, and they're all dead, just like Sally Pruitt and Tess Vigland."

"We can prove those two were murdered," he said. "We've got no evidence whatsoever on the others."

'Then find it," I said, my irritation coming through despite my best efforts. "I can't do everything for you."

Harry came around the table, grabbed me by the collar, and lifted me out of my seat. He looked as if he might strike me. I met his gaze, silently daring him to.

After a long moment, he released me, and I sat down again, straightening my shirt.

"I need you to make a statement," he said, standing over me, glowering. "Everything you know, and when you knew it, starting from the beginning."

"Not until you tell me a few things," I said.

"You want to go back to that cell?" Harry said, jabbing his finger in my face. "I can keep you in there as long as I want."

"And I can tell the officer who takes my statement just how little you had to do with the investigation of your first homicide," Mark said. "How's that going to look to your superiors?"

Harry's face reddened. I wondered how much was anger and how much was embarrassment.

"What do you want to know?" Harry asked.

"Have you found any keys belonging to Dr. Whittington that match the ones Sally Pruitt and Muriel Thayer had?"

"Not yet," Harry said.

"You should see if Tess Vigland, Ingrid Willis, or Clara Cohen had the same key."

"Have you got any other investigative pointers for me?" Harry sneered. "Because if you don't, I have advice to give you on your next surgical procedure."

I ignored the dig and the impulse to make a cutting rejoinder. There was no point making him any angrier than he already was, especially when I still needed more information from him.

"Did you match the tire treads on Dr Whittington's car to the casts you made at the scene of Tess Vigland's murder?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, practically spitting at me. "And the neighbor has identified the Imperial as the car she saw outside the house where Tess Vigland was babysitting. Not that it matters now."

"What happened to all of Whittington's money? How did he lose it?"

"You don't ruin yourself losing money you have," Harry said. "You ruin yourself by losing money that isn't yours. He borrowed against everything he had to invest a hundred thousand dollars in a bomb shelter development company."

"Safe Haven, Incorporated," I said.

"You knew about that, too?"

"He tried to sell me one."

"Shows you just how desperate he really was," Harry said.

"The bullet in his brain told me that," I replied.

Harry explained that Whittington was one of several investors, mostly professionals in other fields, who thought the bomb shelter business was going to boom. It didn't. The enterprise was going bankrupt and taking the investors down with it.

"Have you found any of Sally Pruitt's jewelry in Dr. Whittington's house?" I asked.

Harry shook his head. "He probably ditched it. Wouldn't you if you'd drowned some kid in your bathtub?"

"You think he killed her there?"

"Where else?" Harry said. "What the hell does it matter now anyway? They're dead, he's dead, it's done. Case closed. All that's left is for you to make a statement. You think you can do that now?"

I nodded. I started to rise from my seat, but he pushed me back down.

"I don't ever want to see you again," he said.

"I didn't do this to hurt you," I said.

"But you keep doing it anyway," Harry said. "Investigate
that
."

I lied in my statement.

I didn't change any of the facts, but as I told my story to the officer, I made it seem as if I was consulting with Harry from the beginning, as if we were working hand in hand from the morning he visited my apartment.

It wouldn't be to my advantage to take credit for solving the murders. For one thing, I didn't feel as if I had. I never suspected Dr. Whittington until I was standing on his doorstep, bringing him the admissions files of those three dead women.

Besides, it wouldn't have done me any good. I was a doctor. I had no aspirations to be a homicide detective. And seeking recognition for what little I'd done would have deeply hurt the reputations and careers of Dr. Barbette and Harry Tremble. I cared too much about them both to do that.

And something Harry said to me had struck a nerve.

I'd taken the woman he loved. I wasn't going to take his career away from him, too.

I'd hurt him enough already.

This deserved to be Harry Tremble's victory. The problem was, Harry Tremble would always know that it wasn't.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When I got home that rainy February evening, there was a message waiting for me from the hospital administrators. They'd told Katherine I was on paid leave until the controversy settled down. There was no need for me to come in to work until further notice. They were careful to say that this wasn't a disciplinary action, but rather something they felt was in my best interests, as well as the hospital's.

Needless to say, this message confused Katherine, who had no idea what they were talking about. So, as I ate my dinner, I went over everything once again, ending with my statement to the police.

When I was done, Katherine seemed dazed.

"He kissed my hand," she said. "Dr. Whittington killed all those women, and he kissed my hand."

I didn't know what to say to that. I took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"At least it's all over," I said. "I can go back to being a doctor now. My days as a detective are finished."

"You can't go back to being a doctor just yet," she said. "You're on leave. Remember?"

I glanced at Steve in his playpen, gumming a plastic donut, his shirt drenched in drool.

"Then I'll put all my effort into being a dad," I said.

"What about putting some effort into being a husband?" she said.

"What did you have in mind?"

She gave me a smile. "I'm sure I can think of something."

The front page of the Los Angeles Times the next morning was dominated by the news of Dr. Whittington's suicide and his involvement in the murders of two young women. No mention was made of the other three possible victims. Something else wasn't mentioned—me. And I was glad for that.

The newspaper also reprinted most of Dr. Whittington's suicide note, omitting any mention of forcing would-be nursing students into selling their sexual favors and cutting him in on a percentage. I suspected those details had been withheld by the police to protect the reputations of the young women and their families.

I read the suicide note over many times, and each time I did, the tingle along my neck and between my shoulder blades got worse. Something wasn't right. Whatever it was, I was seeing it, and I wasn't seeing it, at the same time.

It was too frustrating. I gave up and read through the rest of the paper. A lot of column inches were given to storm coverage.

In one short but deadly downpour, half an inch of water fell on the city in a matter of minutes, causing flash floods throughout Los Angeles, turning canyon roads into impassable rivers. Cars were seen floating down Laurel Canyon Boulevard and onto Hollywood Boulevard. In Sierra Madre, hillsides scorched by summer wildfires disintegrated, burying five homes and trapping several people. In Pasadena, a car careened off the freeway and plunged into the Arroyo Seco storm drain, where it was carried two miles to the raging Los Angeles River. Somehow, the occupants of the car survived. LA mayor Sam Yorty declared a state of emergency in the city and ordered the Office of Civil Defense to coordinate operations.

Another article interviewed weather bureau forecasters, who predicted that a mass of unstable, moist air would pummel Los Angeles with "unusually heavy showers" and "extraordinarily high winds" for at least another day. Two water spouts, tornado-like spirals of wind-whipped sea, were reported off Malibu, prompting a warning to boaters and homeowners along the coastline. If the spouts touched land, they would become twisters and could cause enormous destruction.

Southern California wasn't the only place getting hammered by the weather. Rough seas in the Atlantic Ocean recovery area were forcing another delay in astronaut John Glenn's much-anticipated space flight.

And Hedda Hopper reported that actor Vince Edwards, who played Dr. Ben Casey on TV, visited St. Joseph's Hospital in Phoenix and managed to wake a girl from a coma just by saying "hello" to her.

It made me wonder if I should have taken acting classes instead of going to medical school. I would not only be able to cure the sick and help the injured, but I'd probably have my own situation comedy, too.