Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 03 - The Recorder's Way (15 page)

“Each unit has its own laundry room.”
Mother said.

Dad
slowed the car to ask, “Did Max’s PTSD cause his vomiting the other day?”

Helen discovered she could speak. “Max
had previously told me his shell shock was hardly noticeable because of his parents’ deaths.”

“His dad strangled his mother,”
Dad explained to Mother. “then shot himself.”

“I’m sure the war could trump that,” Julia said. “Is he under a doctor’s care?”

“He will be from now on,” Helen promised them. She tried to explain why Max was not seeing a therapist currently. “We both studied the symptoms for shell shock at school. PTSD is just the new name for war injuries to the soul. The smallest thing can trigger a bout of debilitating fear.” Helen remembered Max’s shock and shame at hearing Dad mention Mrs. Brent’s pregnancy.

She had
Google’d his symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder to find if a cure existed. EMDR, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, sessions might allow Max to distance himself from his memories and set up defense mechanisms to cope with reoccurrences. “I wonder what happened at the Handlers.” Helen asked.

“Something must have
triggered the episode?” Dad said, rubbing his bum leg.

“Therefore their days did he consume in vanity and their years in trouble. When he slew them, then they sought him: and they returned and enquired early after God.” Psalm 78: 30-34

Third Monday
in May, 2008

Ann Arbor Police Station

Dr. Handler wore designer jeans with a black silk shirt for his visit to the police station. Max priced out the sneakers on the doctor’s feet. Three hundred dollars was a lot to pay for a pair of shoes. Dr. Handler’s attire telegraphed he was not destitute. When the newspapers reported Dr. Whidbey had been arrested in connection with a blackmailing scheme, Dr. Handler decided to make himself available to the police. “I’ll be glad to authorize handing over all my bank records.” Handler spoke to Captain Tedler, who stayed in the hall closing the interrogation room door without commenting. Max spread the doctor’s file contents onto the metal table. Dr. Handler refused to take a seat. “Isn’t Tedler joining us?”

Max
pointed to the stack of accounting records. “He’s recording our session with a visitor on the other side of the mirror. We received a warrant yesterday for the information. Why did you find it necessary to pay Marilyn Helms $30,000?”

Handler hid his curiosity about the mystery visitor by becoming overly chatty.
“I’m glad you’ve recovered so quickly from your bout of PTSD.” Dr. Handler refused to examine the file Max thrust to his side of the table. “I know Dr. Whidbey and Dr. Cornell didn’t match my outlay. They paid Marilyn blackmail for keeping their slip-ups secret. I, however, was not included in the debacle. I paid Marilyn for sexual favors.”

Max raised one eyebrow. “
You think a jury is going to believe you paid over $30,000 for sex?”

Dr. Handler
tapped his delicate fingers on the metal table. “I admit when Marilyn first started, her prescriptions were easier to finance. I’ve kept detailed financial records and a few videos before Marilyn became so enormous. My journals are very explicit.”

Max realized the doctor might slip away from them. He remembered
Sharon Daley and Helen cautioning him. “Your wives … ?”

Dr. Handler rubbed his hands together. “Were seven. Every time Marilyn needed a raise
, she would threaten to expose us. I always told her to go ahead, no one would believe her. However, six of my very wealthy wives did take her side in the affair. Apparently, their sensibilities were outraged I would pay for serves rendered.” Handler stared unflinchingly at his reflection in the two-way mirror. “I merely countered with the fact each of them paid my bills to enjoy being with me.”

Max nodded in a state of shock. “
Of course, the whole truth and nothing but the truth always ended the relationships.”

“
However,” Dr. Handler raised one ringed hand for Max and the secret visitor to examine. “My seventh wife and I are no longer interested. So the issue is moot. We like to travel. We’ve been married for three months.”

Max remembered why he didn’t enjoy the detective business
and why Helen declined to interview Handler. He opened Larry Schneider’s file folder. “Your patient, who died at St. Anthony’s Hospital …?”

Dr. Handler condescend
ed to sit down. “Larry’s parents were very negligent. They never told me about the boy’s rash. I personally had not examined the boy when he was taken to St. Anthony’s emergency room. I was no longer employed with the hospital. The attending doctor was apparently quite busy with a flurry of panicky mothers bringing in their children to be tested for spinal meningitis. If Larry’s mother had bathed him the night before, she would have seen red skin eruptions. It’s a wonder he lived as long as he did, before Marilyn gave him an overdose of morphine.”

“Is you
r lawyer expected soon?” With those words, Max scooped up the files and fled the room as if to search for Dr. Handler’s lawyer. He wasn’t sure Dr. Handler even considered needing an attorney. Mostly, Max needed an excuse for leaving the room without admitting to Dr. Handler that there might
not
be enough evidence to extract any punishment for his neglect in Larry Schneider’s death. Captain Tedler and the fictitious visitor could show Dr. Handler the door.

Driving
down I-94, Max clamped his right arm down on the file of Dr. Handler’s bank statements. When the wind had flipped open the folder, pages had taken flight behind the convertible. Max tucked the bank records under the passenger seat, without a thought about retrieving the lost documents. Max wished his thoughts of Helen could fly away as easily. He wanted the woman, needed her close, missed her whenever they were separated. He berated himself for his deception to her father. Andrew needed to know all the facts about his affair with Maybell (Anita Brent) and the impending birth of his child. “My child,” he said aloud and acknowledge for the first time all the pride he felt.

“Also
…,” Max felt the weight of his next idea. “Helen and I need to talk to Larry Schneider’s parents.”

♦
♦
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♦
♦

Tom
Schneider’s Apartment

Tom
Schneider’s stark penthouse was unrelieved by the ambiance of books or fabrics. No rugs were scattered about the slate flooring. Leather pillows perched on the black leather couch and chairs. Vertical blinds with mirrored slats blocked out the fading light of the spring day. Black brass sculptures of men and prancing horses were tastefully placed about the living room.

Helen wondered if Max’s studio apartment would feel like
this negative block of space, too. After Tom asked them to remove their shoes, a mangy, longhaired black mutt sniffed Max’s gigantic loafers and Helen’s high heels. Max let the dog lick his hand. “What is your dog’s name?”

“I fixed her after her last litter, but I failed to name her.”
Tom stretched out his arms to offer Helen and Max glasses of iced tea wrapped in a paper towels.

Helen wanted to spoon feed the discouraging information about Dr. Handler
’s case with a compliment about Tom’s apartment. Her mind drew a blank. Instead, she heard Max say. “You haven’t lived here long.”

“I’m not in town very often. Sit, sit. My son deserved better.”

Max plopped down on the couch. Helen sat on the arm of one of the leather chairs. She found it difficult to ask for painful details. Max asked for her, “Dr. Handler reassured you Larry would be all right?”

“He spoke to my wife.”
Tom ground his teeth. The dog growled.

♦
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♦
♦
♦

Amy
Schneider’s Home

Max
and Helen found Amy Schneider’s nest glorified in pink and mauve peony designs, which spread over chintz-covered, matching love seats and hassocks. Three Siamese cats reclined in various poses of disinterest. Lamp tables strained under the weight of books. Tomes were left opened. Others were cracking their spines under precarious stacks. Every bookshelf was stuffed with horizontal and vertical disorderly piles of books. Verdant philodendrons grew on top of the bookshelves as if sustained by the volumes of deep, captured thoughts. Light rose carpeting clashed with the coffee table lilacs, which splayed out their luxuriant hypnotic odors.

“What a lovel
y home you’ve made for yourself.” Helen accepted tea in a china cup.

“Tell me the names of your cats
,” Max said.

Amy
stroked the cats as she passed them. “Hamlet is white, of course. Rosencrantz is the calico and Guildenstern is all black.”

“Was Larry your only son?” Max s
ank into one of the loveseats.

“He was our only child.
Tom has never forgiven me.”

Max sipped the tea as he stalled, hoping for Divine aid to give this bereft mother an offering of comfort. He placed his empty cup and saucer on the stack of books next to him, before his answer arrived
from Helen. “You forgave your husband?” Hamlet positioned himself on Helen’s lap.

“Tom never does anything wrong,” Amy said.

“He left you,” Max said.

Amy brushed her fingers over her dry for
ehead. “Because of Larry’s death.”

Max bent forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Dr. Handler is the person to blame
, not you.” He wanted to fix the chasm between this husband and wife. “Would you accept your husband’s return?”

Amy shook her head. “He won’t want to come back. I remind him of Larry’s death.”

“All your husband’s memories of your son include you.” Max stood up to leave.

“Has
Tom seen your lovely home?” Helen asked.

Amy
smiled; a hint of happiness moistened her eyes. “You’re right, I should invite him.”

♦
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♦
♦
♦

Third Wednesday in May
, 2008

The Firm

Max greeted Andrew with less hesitation than he felt. “Helen phoned. You expect the district attorney this morning?”

“First thing.” Andrew carried a watering can into the back computer room. He stopped with his foot holding open the door to the reception area. “Could you carry a couple chairs up to your office? It’s the most impressive room.”

“No problem.” Max easily slung one computer chair under each arm and mounted the steps to his office. Andrew quickly followed on his heels with a pot of coffee and warmer. Max piled up some of the papers on his desk. “Should I let Mr. Warner sit behind my desk?”

“I don’t think we have to go that far.” Andrew surveyed the room. “We look like we know what we’re doing.”

“Hello?” They heard Helen’s voice sing out downstairs.

“Come on up,” Andrew called. “I’ll wait for Roger downstairs. We don’t need to call him ‘M
ister,’ do we?”

When
Helen arrived in his office, Max felt his heart rate change. He sat down behind the desk to calm down. She was dressed professionally, suit and blouse. She was so endearing, small and capable all at the same time. He felt a little dizzy with the realization he might one day ask this beauty to marry him, if he ever found the nerve to be rejected. ‘Please, God,’ he prayed for he knew not what. ‘Your will be done.’

Six-foot-eight District Attorney Roger Warner was all business as soon as he
thanked Andrew for the delicious coffee blend. “We will need every bit of hard evidence you can find on Handler if we’re going to prosecute him for negligence in Larry Schneider’s death. What do you have besides claiming he paid a nurse to keep quiet?”

After looking up for once to shake a man’s hand,
six-foot-five Max knew if anyone could nail Handler, Warner would have the best shot. “Seven wives can be called to testify that he was involved with Marilyn Helms.”

Helen spoke up. “He claims he was paying her for sex. The woman is enormous.”

Roger Warner shook his head. “Anything else?”

“Both the boy
’s parents will testify.” Max said. “Do we need to make a deal with the nurse to testify?”

“She’s accused of murdering
Sally Bianco to keep the racket intact?” Warner asked.

Max could see the case against Handler contained more problems than solutions. “Are you going to o
ffer her a deal to testify against Handler?”

“
Sally gave her life to bring these doctors to justice.” Helen’s voice held the same note of despair Max felt.

Roger Warner stood up. “I’d like to crucify the guy, too. Andrew, give me affidavits from each of the wives. I understand Marilyn Helms is friends with another nurse and a nun? I’d like
both of them to be at the trial with Marilyn. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Yes.” Max pulled out his middle drawer
to delay breaking the bad news. “Handler said he has tapes of Marilyn.”

“Video
s?” the D.A. asked.

Helen
nodded. “Should we ask for them before the trial?”

“No,” Roger said. “Let’s hope the matter won’t come up.”

After he left, Max was sure Handler would be freed. “The tapes are his only defense.”

“Maybe he
possesses a thread of decency,” Helen said.

“No.” Max was sorry he could not reassure her. “There’s no question of any integrity on his part.”

“I’ll ask Sister James Marine to talk to Marilyn.” Helen walked around the desk, hugged his shoulder, and kissed the side of his face.

Max was afraid to move. Andrew appeared with his watering can and began to water Max’s silk plant hangings.

Helen and Max shouted at him together, “They’re silk!”

Then they laughed at Andrew’s surprised face and dripping watering can.
“Sorry.” Andrew said. “I’ve been watering them since you went to Cape May.” Andrew laughed. “I wondered why Max’s office floor kept getting wet. Listen, Max, I printed out the list of Handler’s wives. Take a tape recorder. Let’s hope their resentments will help dig a hole for Handler to fall into.”