Murder Suicide (29 page)

The part of Clevenger that was a psychiatrist understood two things about Billy:  that he was bound to test Clevenger’s love and that he was vulnerable to the agendas of other men who acted fatherly toward him.  If Jet Heller had been a bookie, Billy would probably be spending hours and hours taking numbers in a Chelsea bar room instead of holding retractors in the Mass General O.R.

But there was another part of Clevenger, the more vulnerable part, maybe the more human part, that still felt things at a gut level, instead of a cerebral one.  And that part of him was enraged at being double-crossed by someone he had bent over backward to help.  "You lied to me," he said.  "And you jeopardized a murder investigation."

"You want me to leave?" Billy asked.

Clevenger looked at him, saw that his question wasn’t about leaving the room, but leaving the loft, for good.  Billy was testing the limits of his love for him, but he was also testing his ability to set limits, to shape Billy’s character, to the extent that it was still possible at age eighteen.  "I don’t want you to leave," Clevenger said.  "I love you.  Having this not work out for us would be pretty much the worst thing that’s ever happened to me."  He let that sink in a few seconds.  "But if you’re going to steal from me and torpedo my work, we won’t have a choice."  He looked Billy in the eyes.  "You just wouldn’t be able to stay here anymore."

"It won’t happen again.  Ever."

Clevenger nodded.  "You’re not to speak to Jet Heller.  Understand?  He isn’t your friend.  And I don’t know why he wanted to be so close to the investigation.  I don’t really know him at all.  And neither do you."

"Okay," Billy said.

Clevenger wondered whether Billy was just humoring him.  But he was reassured by the fact that Billy had volunteered the information on Heller.  He had taken that much responsibility.  "Try to get some sleep," he said.  "We’ll get through this.  And we’ll figure out how to make things work with Casey."

"I know I don’t deserve the help."

"You know what?" Clevenger said.  "It’s time you stop trying to prove that."

Chapter 18

8:00 A.M.

Clevenger hadn’t done more than doze ten minutes at a time, less than an hour’s sleep, total.  He’d gotten up for good at 5:00
A.M.
, called for a rent-a-car from Logan Airport and had them deliver him a Ford Explorer.  He knew where he wanted to drive first.

He called Jet Heller’s office and got Sascha Monroe.

"It’s Frank Clevenger," he said.

"It’s good to hear your voice."

"Same here."  He let a moment pass to mark the immeasurable connection that clearly existed between them.  "I need to come see Jet."

"He isn’t in."

"The whole day?"

"He said he’ll be here by eleven.  He canceled his first case in the O.R.   It was set for six."

"I didn’t know The Great Heller canceled cases."

"Not once in the five years I've known him."

"Is he alright?"

"You should ask him when he comes in."

"You’re worried about him."

"He lost that girl.  The one with the aneurysm Billy scrubbed in on."

"I know."

"I think it’s even more than that, though."

"What do you mean?"

"It started when he lost John Snow."  She paused.  "I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.  You’re not his psychiatrist.  Neither am I."

"You care about him," Clevenger said.  "Just like you cared about John Snow."

That helped Monroe say more.  "He hasn’t been himself.  He keeps talking about John being killed, going over and over it.  Have I read anything in the newspaper, seen anything on television?  He’s obsessed."

"Why, do you think?"

"Honestly?  I think he saw parts of himself in John."

"Such as...?"

"The idea of overcoming your past, forgetting the people who’ve hurt you — and the people you’ve hurt.  I think he wanted to cure John of his seizures, but he was even more committed to freeing him from his memories."

"Why would that be so important to him?"

"I think because of what happened to Jet when he was young."

Clevenger remembered the story — Heller being abandoned by his biological parents, truant from school, locked up for assault by the Department of Youth Services.  "He told me," he said.  "When he found neurosurgery everything changed for him."

"It could have been anything that gave him the chance to save lives.  I mean, he didn’t mean to shoot that boy.  He was only eleven.  A screwed-up kid.  But, deep down, I don’t think he believes that.  I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself."

Heller hadn’t told Clevenger his DYS arrest was for shooting someone.  He had said he assaulted someone.  "Did the boy survive?" Clevenger asked.  "He didn’t say."

"No," Monroe said.  "That’s just it.  He died."

Clevenger could barely come up with words to follow that revelation.  Heller had killed someone.  That certainly didn’t prove he had killed again, but it raised that specter.  Killers are different from the rest of us — unrestrained by empathy.  Maybe Heller had changed, maybe he hadn’t.

"It seems like Jet wished he was getting the surgery he was ready to perform on John," Monroe continued.  "That’s why it mattered so much to him.  Even if he saves a thousand lives, I don’t think he’ll ever forget taking a life.  And I think he’d like to live without the guilt, for once, start fresh."

"You can join my practice whenever you want," Clevenger said, hoping to end the discussion without showing how taken aback he was.

"Thanks.  But I can barely keep my own life on track, never mind figuring out other people."

That was an invitation to go deeper into Monroe’s life story.  "We should talk about that sometime."

"Sometime," she said.  "Shall we expect you at eleven, then?"

"That would be great."

"I’ll put you in the book.  See you then."

"Take care."

Clevenger hung up.  He walked to the wall of windows, looked out at the bridge.  Monroe’s assessment of Heller could be correct.  His thirst to be liberated from his own conscience could have fueled an extraordinary desire to liberate Snow, along with outrage when someone snuffed out his plan.

But there was another way to see Heller.  Maybe the excitement of pulling off the surgery of the decade had worn thin as its moral implications became clearer to him.  His entire life’s work, after all, had been driven by the desire to make amends for the life he had taken.  Clearly severing a man from his past deeds may ultimately have felt like helping a fugitive escape justice.

Heller had told Clevenger over drinks at the Alpine that he would have performed surgery on Snow even if his seizures were not actual epilepsy, but pseudoseizures.  But what if that wasn’t true?  What if Heller had come to see that there was no way to cure Snow of his ‘fits’ with a scalpel, that his only agenda in the O.R. would be destroying Snow’s memory?  And what if making that kind of medical history would have made Heller feel like a fraud, a traitor to the profession he loved?  Then killing Snow may have seemed like the only way out, the only way to defend the purity of what he called his religion — neurosurgery.

Heller had killed once before.  Had becoming a doctor, healing people, merely obscured the core darkness inside him — until now?  Was his life story — his karma — ultimately as inescapable as John Snow’s?

Gravity.  Orbits.  The relentless pull of the past.  Did anyone really break free, ever?

Clevenger heard Billy step out of his room.  He turned around.

Billy was dressed in baggy jeans, a gray, long-sleeved sweatshirt, a baseball cap with the logo of a skateboarding company spray-painted across the front.  He’d added a few iron beads to the ends of his dreadlocks.  "You want me to go get the stuff I gave Jet?" he asked.

Hearing Billy use Heller’s first name made Clevenger wonder just how violated Billy really felt, how seriously he was taking the whole thing.  And the fact that he would consider going to see him was even more concerning.  "I want to be clear," Clevenger told him.  "You don’t talk to Jet Heller.  You don’t stop by Jet Heller’s office.  You don’t take Jet Heller’s calls.  Got it?"

"I just want to make things right."

"I need your word you’ll steer clear of him."

Billy shrugged.  "I promise," he said.  He sighed.  "Any hints about what to say to Casey?"

"What do you want to say to her?"

"That she’s screwing up both our lives."

Clevenger could have smiled at Billy’s plain speaking.  He resisted.  "If I were you, I wouldn’t say anything right now.  Let her have some time to herself.  She’s got a lot to think about."

Billy nodded.  "See you when I get home?  Say, five?"

"You got it."  He watched him leaving.  "Hey, Billy," he called out, before the front door closed.

Billy poked his head back inside.  "Yeah?"

"You’ve got a limo today — the cruiser out front.  Just let him know where to drop you off."

"Cool."  He left.

Clevenger picked up the phone and called North Anderson, filled him in on Heller.

"Maybe I ought to stop in at Mass General again," Anderson said.  "Find out whether anyone can confirm Heller was
inside
the hospital when Snow was shot."

"Good idea.  What else is up?"

"I’m doing what I can to track George Reese’s financials.  I’ve found several brokerage accounts, a half-dozen money market accounts — so far.  This guy was loaded, but losing twenty-five million on Vortek might have changed that."

"How much do you think he was worth?"

"So far, unless he’s got money offshore, maybe thirty, thirty-five million.  And I don’t know what other loans the Beacon Street Bank has outstanding.  If a few of their bigger borrowers flaked on them, along with Vortek failing, I could see the whole thing imploding."

"Any way to track actual deposits?  Coroway told me he returned about half the R & D money dedicated to Vortek.  It was that much of a lost cause.  I’d like to know if he really did."

"I might need a little help from Vania O’Connor if he isn’t scared off.  A password or two."

"He doesn’t scare easily.  Call him up."

"Will do.  Where you headed?"

"Heller’s office."

"You want backup?"

"No.  He’s not likely to attack me at the hospital.  If he’s our man, he’d find me in a dark alley — or blow up my car."

"People do funny things when they’re cornered."

"I’ll watch myself."

"I’ve said the same thing a million times, but I don’t know how you actually do that."

Clevenger smiled.  "I’ll be fine.  Call me with anything you turn up."

"Will do, buddy."

*            *            *

Clevenger got to Jet Heller’s office at 10:50.  Half a dozen patients were in the waiting area.  Sascha Monroe was working on her computer.  He walked up to her desk.  "Hey," he said.

She looked up.  "Hey."

What was it about not knowing a person that allowed you to wonder whether she might be the answer to all your problems?  Where did a
lovemap
ultimately lead — ecstasy, contentment; or disappointment, betrayal?  If he invited Sascha Monroe into his life, got to know her as a real and complete person, would he still be able to fantasize about her, worship her?

"I’m early," he said.

"He hasn’t called in," she said, sounding worried.

"Is that unusual?"

"For Jet?  He normally calls five times before he hits the front door.  ‘Get this file.’  ‘Call this patient.’  ‘Print out labs.’"

"But nothing today."

"Not a word.  I called his house.  No answer.  No answer on his cell."

That did sound strange.  "Is this typical of him when he loses a patient?" Clevenger asked, keeping his voice down to avoid any of the patients overhearing.

"That doesn’t typically happen.  When it does, he isn’t himself, but he doesn’t go missing."

"It isn’t quite 11:00 yet."

"I know.  But, still."

"Let’s wait and see what happens."

Sascha nodded.  But she was clearly anxious.

Clevenger took a seat in the waiting area, picked up a copy of
TIME
and glanced through it.  Five minutes passed.  Ten.  Fifteen.  Two more patients came in.  A man with a shunt emerging from his scalp who had been waiting checked his watch, shook his head in irritation.  Clevenger looked over at Sascha, saw she was looking at him, real worry on her face now.  He stood up, walked over to her.

"Something’s wrong," she said.  "I just know it."

"Why don’t I drive over to his place, see if I can find him there."

"You’d do that?"

"Sure.  Where does he live?"

"Fifteen Chestnut Street.  The penthouse.  Unit three."

That was on Beacon Hill, just about a mile away.  "If he’s there I’ll have him call you."

Clevenger left his car in the Mass General garage.  Chestnut Street was only a ten minute walk, and the air was cold, but not uncomfortable.  The sun was bright.  No wind.  The kind of day that makes people visiting Boston, walking the cobblestones and old brick, decide to pick up and move there.

He got to 15 Chestnut, a towering, three-story, bowfront.  He opened the massive oak door to the inner lobby, saw Heller’s name engraved on a brass plaque beside a buzzer for unit 3.  He pressed it, waited.  No answer.  He pressed it again.  Nothing.

He walked outside, then to the back of the building.  There were three parking spaces.  The one assigned to unit three had an Aston Martin in it.  Red.  Hundred-and-fifty grand.  That had to be Heller’s.  He looked up, saw the shutters in Heller’s apartment were closed.

He walked out front, into the entryway.  He buzzed unit 1.

Several seconds passed, then a woman with a foreign accent answered.  "Yes?  May I help you?"

"Delivery," Clevenger said.

"For Mrs. Webster?"

"Delivery," Clevenger repeated.  When people can do something simple to avoid conflict — say, hit a button or unlock a latch — they’ll generally do it.  That’s why home invaders don’t usually have to break down doors.  "Delivery," he said again.