Mortal Remains (3 page)

Earl barely heard any of it. The voices seemed to come at him through a hose. He thought of hair the color of sunlight turning scarlet, and felt his stomach lurch.

“… the next patient is a man who claims his partner shoved the vibrator in too far…”

Had she been tortured, raped, died screaming?

He’d seen a lifetime of victims come through his ER, and needed no prompting to imagine how bad it could get. What if she hadn’t been unconscious when her killer dumped her into the lake? She would have gone to the bottom in agony for air, knowing she was going to die, praying for it even.

He desperately tried to stop the images, but his mind poured them on, determined to scour his experience for detailed examples of what she could have been put through. It left him wanting to scream, to strangle someone, to hit back at whoever had so viciously hurt her. Yet he just stood quietly in the little crowd, his eyes brimming with tears, the ritual start to a day in ER unfolding around him as it had for over twenty years.

“… the next patient presented with coffee-grounds vomitus and black tarry stool…”

So many people’s stories over so many mornings, they extended back to his beginnings here, and farther, to the days of his residency, to medical school, and the time he loved Kelly.

But he could focus only on one story, his and Kelly’s.

He had been the man in the taxi.

New York City

Dr. Melanie Collins, Chief of Internal Medicine at New York City Hospital, dropped the
Herald
, open at page three, onto the black marble surface of her kitchen counter.

Oh, my God! It didn’t seem possible. Not now. Not after so long. Incredulous, she kept staring at the print.

Catching her breath, she gazed beyond the gleaming state-of-the-art appliances to the white birch floors running the length of her penthouse. The morning sun crept along the pale grain, enriching it. It would normally be her favorite moment of the day, the curtain going up on the chic, architectural masterpiece she’d created for herself – a space more fit for an upscale artist than a middle-aged physician. The light reached a long dining area with a mahogany table capable of seating twelve, a large round of white leather chairs and couches for relaxing, an entertainment center with a wide-screen television so thin she’d had it mounted on the wall amid an array of paintings – everything encircled by 180 degrees of full-length windows overlooking the Hudson River immediately to the west and downtown Manhattan to the northeast. Even the stretch of Japanese hand-painted screens that she’d had to place along the east windows glowed with a soft translucence that blended with the rest of the decor. This was her aerie, a hard-won prize for what she’d accomplished, the place where she found solace and comfort from the exhausting grind of the hospital. But the sense of inner calm it usually evoked failed to arrive. Instead, she felt a stirring of fear.

In the far corner, elevated on a shallow platform, was the four-poster where she routinely bedded men ten years her junior. She strode past it on her way to the bathroom and a large walk-in shower. Dropping her robe, she stepped in and turned on the spray full force. Underneath the hot needles of water, she splayed her fingers over her breasts and slowly ran her hands down her exercise-sculpted body. Yet her muscles remained tense. Was she herself now in danger? It had seemed best at the time to say nothing, especially since the police never found out where Kelly went after she took the cab. But if they ever did…

The thought sickened her. Because they would learn what she’d kept secret all these years, then come asking questions. Just the fact she hadn’t told would look bad, perhaps be enough to make her a suspect – all because she had met with Kelly McShane on the day of her disappearance.

The University Club,

Midtown Manhattan

“Shit!” Dr. Charles Braden IV threw down the paper, spilling his orange juice and knocking the glass to the floor. He signaled the waiter. “Pedro, I want more coffee, now.”

Sitting across from him, Dr. Charles Braden III frowned. “Chaz, what’s the matter?”

Chaz shoved the article at his father, then leaned back. The older man’s handsome face remained as calm as if he were reading a weather report. Not even his posture gave any clue as to what the discovery of Kelly’s remains could mean to the family, his lean physique still seemingly relaxed.

After skimming the article for a few seconds, he shot his son a withering look. “Now that’s just perfect, Chaz. Yes, by all means, get mad. And where everyone can see, too.”

“Shall I bring you a fresh cup, sir?” the slim, black-haired waiter asked, dropping a white napkin over the stain and cleaning away any splashed dishes. Pedro didn’t see himself as a mere waiter. He was the protector of the propriety of the members he served. The greater the indiscretion, the more Pedro made sure his customers knew that they owed him big-time, but tantrums he handled with minimal fuss.

Chaz looked around at the other members who were finishing up their breakfasts. The paneled dining room was only half-full. Dim recessed lighting and lush plants strategically positioned in front of the dining alcoves guarded everyone’s privacy almost as much as Pedro did. No one had so much as glanced his way.

But that would change.

Gossipmongers would soon be watching his every move.

Just like before.

And like before, they’d try to pin Kelly’s murder on him, only then it was just her disappearance.

“I’d advise you to remain cool,” his father continued, carefully placing the paper on the table. He leaned back, the thick bristles of his steely gray hair glistening silver under the light. “After all, we knew this was coming. They did let us know about finding her remains and about the forensic report. You’ve had time to prepare yourself.” At seventy-four, the man could still sear his son’s soul with that hard blue stare of his.

He couldn’t go through it again, the police once more poring over every detail of Kelly’s final days, probing, digging, questioning. He’d be right back in the nightmare, living in fear of a knock on the door, a phone call, a newscast. Chaz ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. “How can I stay cool?”

Charles Braden leaned forward and flashed the smile that made the world jump to his wishes. “By never forgetting that you’re innocent. By remembering the police cleared you back then. By knowing I’ve already reminded a few key people in the NYPD of that fact. Trust me, they’ll be looking for someone else.”

“What about the media?” he asked.

“I can make a few calls to them as well. So stop looking so morose. As far as police and reporters go, I think you’ll be pretty much left alone.”

Long ago Chaz had tried to emulate his father’s easy charm in getting people to do what he wanted, but he learned at an early age that he was lousy at it. He got better results by using raw power, and that only worked within the walls of the hospital. Even there he didn’t have his father’s facile ability to succeed as a doctor and reach the inner circles of power. He was a drudge. Hard work and long hours had won him the position of Chief of Cardiology. The one category where he held his own was in physical presence. He, too, was tall and thin; people noticed when he walked into a room.

Pedro returned with an oversize cup filled with a particularly strong brew. Chaz thanked him, and doctored it with sugar only. To his disgust he saw his hand tremble slightly as he took a sip. “I won’t be left alone if they find out I was the last one to talk with Kelly.”

St. Paul’s Hospital,

Buffalo, New York.

Finally, the presentations were over. At this point Earl usually fired off a few pointed questions to drive home any teaching pearls. Today he felt more like firing off a machine gun. After a few uninspired attempts to come up with some zingers, he called it quits. His audience left, muttering in frustration, and a few of his staff gave him what’s-the-matter-with-you looks.

All he could think of was, Who? Who had done this to Kelly? Some stranger? Her husband?

He tried to see patients, but the parade of faces and stories blurred into one another. As for his clinical responses, only the reflexes from twenty-four years’ experience saw him through.

“… Prilosec, Flagyl, and Biaxin ought to do the trick…”

“… an ECG, blood gas, and nuclear scan of his lungs for starters…”

“… albuterol by aerosol and IV steroids…”

He kept wondering if Chaz Braden had killed her after all. Yet why him, when he could have divorced her, ruined her burgeoning career, gotten back at her any number of ways? He continued to pummel himself with questions, sadness pulling him inside out one second, outrage filling him like a balloon the next.

Well practiced at putting on his “everything is fine” face for his patients and troops during the worst of cases, he could feel the tightly contracted muscles of his jaw and knew he looked drawn and tense. “What a lousy actor, you are,” he muttered, disgusted with the pale imitation of his usual take-charge presence, knowing he shouldn’t continue to work with his mind in such a tumult. “Can you cover for me?” he asked Dr. Michael Popovitch, his portly second-in-command, and one of his closest friends.

Michael looked up from a cut hand he was suturing and eyed Earl over a pair of bifocals. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Of course. I’ve got some personal business to take care of.”

“Go to it.”

Earl walked quickly to his office, where he could steady himself in private. He flopped into the high-backed chair and ran his fingers through his gray hair. The steady
shush
of the air ducts in the tiled ceiling pressed in on him.

Away from the distractions of ER, he felt the initial numbing effect of the news subside as the slower, crawling emotions of grief took over. A tightness in his gut crept up to his chest, and sadness, no longer alternating with an urge to pistol-whip Kelly’s killer, overwhelmed him. Its intensity surprised him; he’d not thought about Kelly for years. Perhaps the reaction felt so strong because he’d always told himself she was thriving somewhere, happy with a career, a man, maybe kids. That’s how he’d imagined her when he first started to shut her out of his thoughts so that he could get on with his life and how she had remained until today, sealed up in rarely visited memories, but alive. Now her murder seemed fresh and recent-

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

Susanne poked her head around the door. “Sorry, Dr. Garnet. We just got two ambulances from a three-car pileup on the ninety and another’s on the way. Michael says he apologizes, but can you come?”

Michael wouldn’t have had him called unless he was really needed. “I’ll be right along.”

Getting to his feet, he felt heavy, as if walking underwater. He heard a siren in the distance coming closer by the second, and his heart quickened. No matter how many years he’d had in the pit, that sound always got his adrenaline pumping. Rushing through the hallway toward triage, he tried to clear his mind for the work ahead, only to have more questions intrude.

Should he go to the police? Tell them everything? Or keep his mouth shut and hope they never found out? It had been such a long time. But if the police started searching for the man in the cab again…

An old fear swept through him, a dread of discovery he’d lived with since the day she disappeared. He couldn’t say for sure when it finally faded away, sometime after he left New York at the end of his residency in 1978. Now it came back, a contagion roaring out of remission.

11:45 A.M.

“Telephone, Dr. Garnet,” said a clerk in the nursing station, her eyes scanning his face. “Should I take a message?”

Her politeness disconcerted him. Everyone in the department had been treating him with kid gloves all morning. Obviously they all knew something was wrong. Normally that same clerk would stack up seven calls on hold, expecting him to take every one of them pronto, and he would have thrived on it.

He took the receiver from her. “Dr. Garnet speaking.”

“Earl! It’s Ronda. Did you read in the
Herald
that they found the body of that medical student you and my sister used to hang out with at NYCU, the one who disappeared?”

New York City University had been where he attended medical school.

He hesitated. “Yeah. I saw that this morning. A real shock.”

“Must be. From what Melanie has told me about those times, I know the three of you were good friends.”

“That we were.”

“Better you be forewarned. The police will probably want to talk to everyone who knew her.”

Exactly what he’d already figured, but hearing someone else say it made the squeeze he’d been feeling in his stomach cinch tighter. “Probably. I appreciate the heads-up. Did you reach Melanie?”

“I tried to call, but the hospital couldn’t track her down. I left a message with her answering service. I’m going to be in Peds all day, so she’ll be able to reach me.”

“Well, thanks, Ronda.”

The call gave him a new worry. Not about Ronda. They’d been friends for years, ever since Melanie told him to look up her kid sister when he moved to Buffalo to join the staff at St. Paul’s. At the time Ronda had been starting her own specialty training in pediatrics. Now, twenty-four years later, she was married, had two kids, and was a veteran in her field. He and Janet had often enjoyed the company of Ronda and her husband during hospital functions. At the St. Paul’s annual picnic, her kids played with Brendan.

No, the problem lay in who else Melanie Collins might have gossiped to about Kelly McShane and him being such “good friends.” After all the new headlines, someone in their class, however oblivious of him and Kelly in 1978, might suddenly suspect the truth if unintentionally prompted by Melanie now. The police would be investigating murder this time, not a disappearance, and that was likely to make everyone they talked to turn amateur detective.

“Dr. Garnet, there’s another call for you on line three. It’s the police.”