The Doctor Digs a Grave (12 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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“Well …” She hesitated, wanting to kiss him but intimidated by the audience: a nurse, a policeman, a file clerk, and a cat. Sal had suddenly emerged from under the radiator, a puff of dust clinging to her tail. Jennifer blew Fenimore a kiss instead.
As soon as she had gone, Fenimore was out of his chair. “I've got to get to work.”
“Work?” Mrs. Doyle was startled. “Shouldn't you go back to bed?”
“Surely you don't think I put you to all this trouble”—he waved at the cluttered desk—“to send me back to bed.” He was halfway up the stairs. “My public awaits.” He bowed deeply to his audience of four and scurried up the rest of the stairs.
STILL LATER THURSDAY MORNING
D
espite the delay for cosmetic surgery, Fenimore arrived at the emergency room of Franklin Hospital at 10:00 A.M. But not alone. Officer Santino stood in the hallway, watching him through the glass door of the ER. The young woman at the desk, cradling a cup of steaming coffee, glanced up. She registered nothing when she saw his face. Three cheers for Mrs. Doyle.
“I'd like to see the records of Joanne Field.” (He had almost forgotten her Anglicized name.) “She was here on Saturday, October 29th—in the late afternoon, around 4:30. But she left before she could be admitted.” He showed her his identification.
The nurse blinked. “I think I was on duty, Doctor. Was she a Native American?”
“Yes.” Another eyewitness? He could hardly believe his good fortune.
“I'll get the file.” She disappeared between a pair of sliding glass doors.
He watched her walk over to a desk and boot up a computer.
The scent of the coffee she had left behind reached him. In his convalescent mode, he had wanted tea. In his recovery mode, he wanted coffee. He looked around for the coffeepot. He spotted it in a corner, complete with packets of sugar, milk, and Styrofoam cups. ER employees, apparently, were undaunted by warnings about high cholesterol and recycling. Helping himself, he went back to the reception desk. He had scalded his mouth twice before the nurse came back and handed him a printout.
“It was quiet here that day, Doctor,” she said. “That's why I remember her. Later on it was a zoo. We had an apartment fire, a three-car accident, and a stabbing. But when your patient walked in, it was as quiet as a church.”
“Tell me what you remember.”
“Well, the thing I remember about her is that after a very short time, she walked out. And a few minutes later Dr. Sheehab, two nurses, and an orderly came rushing after her.”
“What did they say?”
“The doctor said, ‘That woman who just left is an MVA case. Is there any way we can get her back?' I said, ‘Her home number must be on her chart.' And he said—I remember this distinctly—‘She may not
make
it home.'”
MVA stood for malignant ventricular arrythmia, a condition known in the popular medical vernacular as “the Pearly Gates syndrome.” If you had it, and it was untreated, that's where you were headed.
Fenimore glanced at the file. “Anything else?”
“No. Except she looked terrible. I almost stopped her myself. But she was moving so fast and looked so determined … .” She shrugged.
Fenimore thanked her and, still studying the file, felt his way to an empty chair. When he came to the electrocardiograms, he let out a low whistle. No wonder they had run after her. After
scanning the computer printout of her SMA 20 blood test, he laid the file aside to consider.
The report held the following significant facts: distinct abnormalities in her electrocardiograms—heart block, ventricular tachycardia, and MVA. Such irregularities could occur years after complete repair of tetralogy of Fallot. But the presence of another factor altered this conclusion. Her SMA 20 blood test revealed a potassium level of 7. Very high. Top normal was 5. These two results taken together pointed to a different diagnosis altogether: digitalis toxicity. In order to verify this, he must have the blood test of her digoxin level. He riffled through the file. Where was it? Surely they had done one. He went back to the desk.
“I'm sure it was done, Doctor. Some blood serum is always put in a separate tube with a lab slip requesting a digoxin level.”
“Then why isn't it here?”
She frowned. “I don't know.”
A pretty poor show. Fenimore thought that his hospital staff was sloppy, but he had never known them to lose a blood test. Disgruntled, he returned to his chair. As he read on, he discovered that Dr. Sheehab had shared his suspicions. At the end of the file, he had scrawled in his own hand, “Test results suggest possible dig toxicity. Staff prepared to administer FAB to patient, but despite strong recommendations to be admitted to the hospital, she left of her own volition.” He was also covering himself, in case of a lawsuit.
“FAB,” Fenimore murmured. Fragments of antigen binding. He was familiar with the treatment. Derived from sheep, it was an antibody which, if administered in time, was capable of rendering digoxin inactive. If Sweet Grass had not signed herself out—if she had stuck around long enough to receive this treatment—she might still be alive today. He rubbed his eyes and reached for his coffee.
If Sweet Grass had been suffering from dig toxicity, he had three questions: (1) When was the lethal dose administered? (2) How? and (3) By whom?
It might have been administered shortly before her attack, at the picnic. Did one of the picnickers lace her potato salad with powdered digoxin tablets? But Mrs. Henderson had told him that they all had helped themselves from the same serving dishes. If any of them had been seasoned with digitalis, some of the other guests would have developed symptoms.
Fenimore chucked his Styrofoam cup into the nearest wastebasket. Of course, Sweet Grass might have received the dose earlier, during her visit with Roaring Wings. A little digoxin could easily go unnoticed in a cup of strong herb tea. It was hard to know how fast these drugs would work. It depended on many factors: age, weight, how tired you were, how long it had been since you had last eaten … Then again, Sweet Grass, feeling despondent after the picnic, could have increased her own dose of digoxin. He returned the file to the nurse.
“I don't suppose there's any hope that this patient's blood serum sample is still lying around the lab.”
She shook her head. “That's disposed of right away, especially if the patient checks out before being admitted.”
He nodded. His own hospital followed the same procedure. But, in order to prove digitalis toxicity, he had to have a sample of that serum. He thanked her and was about to leave when he remembered something. “Uh, one more favor. Could you call George Johnson out here.”
“The orderly?”
He nodded.
She paged him on the intercom. Johnson appeared in a few minutes. A lanky black man with a friendly grin, he was glad to help. Unfortunately, he couldn't add much to what Fenimore had already gleaned from Johnson's girlfriend.
“I don't know, Doc. It all happened so fast. She was in and out before any of us could blink an eye. It's not often someone with Pearly Gates takes off. We were all kind of in shock. Even the doc. But there was no stoppin' her. She was determined.” The same word the nurse had used.
Fenimore nodded. “Well, thanks anyway.”
 
It was a brisk morning. Autumn had finally given Indian summer a swift kick in the pants. Fenimore turned up his collar and buried his hands in his pockets. It was that chilly. Absorbed in his thoughts, he forgot about his shadow, Officer Santino, hovering a few yards behind. He passed a fruit vendor flipping chunks of pineapple, cantaloupe, and strawberries into plastic containers for the lunch crowd. A pigeon abandoned a prize chunk of pretzel to make way for Fenimore, and a homeless man blocked his way to ask for a quarter. He dug into his pocket and came up with one. While his mind was registering these details on one level, it was churning rapidly away on another.
Sweet Grass had been born with tetralogy of Fallot. The defect had been surgically corrected when she was a child, but she still required a daily regimen of digitalis. Under stress from her pending wedding, she had experienced two episodes of rapid heartbeat. According to her diary, her doctor had prescribed a small dose of Inderal in addition to her regular digoxin, but no increase in her dig regimen. He made a mental note to visit Dr. Robinson later that day.
As he turned the corner, he kicked a soda can into the gutter, a sure sign that he was preoccupied. Normally, he would have lobbed it into a trash can. (Santino did so.) Sweet Grass had complained to Doris of nausea, headache, and dizziness—all symptoms of simple food poisoning. But she had felt bad enough to seek out the ER. There, they had taken several electrocardiograms.
The results were alarming, and she had been strongly urged to admit herself to the hospital. Instead, she walked out. Of course, this denial of her illness could be explained by her pending wedding. She couldn't face the prospect of an illness that might cause a delay. (Having never been on the brink of matrimony, it was clever of Fenimore to deduce this.)
Red light. He waited at the curb, oblivious to the other pedestrians elbow to elbow on either side of him. He would feel better if he could absolutely establish the cause of death. But he couldn't do that without the blood serum sample. Once the cause was established, he could go on to whether it was accidental or deliberate. And, if the latter, who was to blame.
Green light. He crossed. Facing him was the hospital. Without realizing it, he had circled the block. He decided to go back in and bother the nurse for one more look at the report. Maybe he'd missed something.
As the nurse handed him the folder, she said, “I just thought of something.”
He looked up.
“That blood serum you asked for …”
“Yes?” His heart rose.
“It may still be around. There's a doctor here doing research on MVA. There's the memo.” She pointed to a notice attached to the corkboard over her desk. “We're supposed to send a sample of blood serum from all MVA cases to his lab. You might find what you want there.”
His heart leaped. “What's his name?”
“Applethorn.”
His heart sank. He knew him. The most suspicious research doctor in all of researchdom. If he asked Applethorn for one of his blood samples, he would immediately suspect Fenimore of trying to steal a jump on his research. Applethorn slunk around
the hospital corridors looking over his shoulder even more than the doctors who were on the lamb from the IRS. Nevertheless, Fenimore would have to give it a try. “Thanks. I'll look into it.” She
had
been helpful. How was she to know that Applethorn was paranoid?
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
D
eciding that a personal visit would produce better results than a phone call, Fenimore scanned the list of names on the board beside the elevators. Applethorn and his lab were located on the fifth floor.
Fenimore stepped into the elevator, quickly followed by Officer Santino. “I had a little shadow …” Fenimore muttered to himself.
Applethorn's office was protected from the rest of the hospital by a heavy glass door. When Fenimore pulled it open, he was met with a hush usually reserved for church sanctuaries. In the tones of a church usher, a jittery receptionist informed him that the doctor would see him presently. Between phone calls, she kept glancing over her shoulder at the door behind her as if the Furies were about to descend on her. The turnover in this job, he suspected, must be fairly high.
His last encounter with Dr. Applethorn had been at a cardiology conference in Boston. Fenimore traveled there each October to catch up on the latest innovations in his field. The topics that year had been especially erudite and impractical, and
Applethorn had been reading one of the principal papers. During the question-and-answer period, Fenimore had asked a question that had cast some doubt on the premise on which Applethorn's entire research project was based. At the cocktail party afterward, he had caught the research man staring at him once or twice, in a manner that could only be described as malevolent. But that was more than four years ago. He hoped, by now, the doctor had forgotten the incident.
Fenimore's ruminations were interrupted by the receptionist speaking to him in a tone usually reserved for introductions to royalty or the pope.
“Dr. Applethorn will see you now.” She glanced at Officer Santino.
“Oh, he stays out here,” Fenimore said.
Santino looked up from his magazine and smiled broadly.
Relieved, she hurriedly ushered Fenimore into the inner office.
The center of the room was occupied by an enormous teakwood desk, devoid of clutter. Its only ornaments were a lamp, a telephone, and a pristine blotter in a bilious shade of green. Fenimore deduced that all the paperwork in Applethorn's department was performed by underlings in less elegant quarters. His energies must be preserved for more important matters—such as selecting the expensive furniture that surrounded him.
The figure behind the desk peered at him through dark-rimmed glasses, reminding Fenimore of a certain small rodent he had seen on a recent trip to the zoo. The name escaped him at the moment, but …
“Ah, Fenimore.” A tic began near Applethorn's left nostril, and Fenimore knew he had not forgotten their encounter four years ago.
Fenimore plowed ahead with his request. As he was outlining his reasons for requiring the sample of Joanne Field's blood serum, the telephone rang. Applethorn snatched up the receiver.
“Two milliliters, you say?” Without apology, he dropped the phone and darted through a door that must have been connected to his laboratory.
Fenimore, left alone, practiced the climax to his plea. When the research man returned, he looked flushed but satisfied.
“False alarm,” he said. “New man misread some results.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, which looked as if it was used often for this purpose. “Where were we?”
Fenimore concluded his request, careful to emphasize that it had absolutely nothing to do with research.
There was a pause before Applethorn said, “Doing any research these days, Fenimore?”
“No indeed.” Fenimore shook his head vehemently. “Not my line, I'm afraid. I leave that end of medicine to the brainier fellows, like yourself.”
“Come, come, Fenimore, it's never too late to begin. I find that most of my colleagues like to take a turn at it, at least once in their careers.”
“Not this one.” Fenimore spoke emphatically. “Practice takes up all my time.” Jerboa, that was it, the small rodent Applethorn reminded him of.
“You're still on your own, I understand.”
Fenimore nodded.
“And you have your own lab?”
“Uh, yes, but it's very small, strictly for simple blood tests and urinalyses.”
Applethorn turned in his expensive Swedish swivel chair to gaze out the window. His view, unlike Fenimore's brick wall, was a lovely panorama of the city. After a moment's reflection, he turned back. “I'd like to help you, Fenimore …”
Over my dead body, translated Fenimore.
“ … but the work I'm involved in is so sensitive, and …”
… and your ego is so fragile that you're petrified I'll steal your work and publish first, Fenimore finished silently.
“ … so near completion that I can't risk the slightest disruption. I'm sure you understand.” The tic had subsided, and the eyes behind the dark-rimmed lenses held a triumphant gleam.
Fenimore rose. He was sure the little doctor had expected him to grovel and was disappointed when he merely thanked him for his time and left. As he came out of the inner office, the receptionist cast him a furtive glance and scurried in to receive her next command.
 
Later that evening, as Fenimore tidied up his desk for the night, he noticed a pink message slip that Mrs. Doyle had neglected to tell him about. From Polly Hardwick, the message read: “Found your pipe. All at ballet tonight. If you want to stop by for it, the maid will let you in.” On the surface, hardly an urgent message. How was Mrs. Doyle to know that it was the one message he had been waiting for?
When Fenimore rang the bell, the maid answered the door. She was small, delicately made, her skin the color of amber. “They are at the ballet.” She spoke with a faint Spanish accent.
“I know. I've come for my pipe.”
“Oh, yes.” Her smile was quick and bright. “I'll get it.”
He followed her into the hall and waited. When she reappeared bearing his pipe, he resisted checking it for scratches. He shuffled and said haltingly, “I wonder if I might use your facilities. I've been making house calls all day, and …”
“Of course, Doctor. Down the hall and to the left.” She pointed the way to the powder room. “You may let yourself out.” Another quick smile and she disappeared into the back recesses of the house.
He stood, holding his pipe, until her footsteps died away. Quickly and silently, he made his way up the broad central staircase.
There were three aspects to private-eyeing that Fenimore detested: snooping, lying, and eavesdropping. No matter how often
he told himself that the end justified the means, whenever he indulged in these activities he felt guilty. Fortunately, like alcoholics whose desire for that first drink always outweighs the memory of their last hangover, Fenimore's desire to know the truth always outweighed his memory of the awkward consequences of his last snoop.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he looked down the long polished hallway with doors leading off to rooms on either side. He plunged into the first room on his left. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he felt certain that anything he learned about the weird sisters and their mother (Lady Macbeth?) would bring him closer to discovering how—and why—Sweet Grass had died.
This wasn't a bona fide search, of course. He had no warrant, no right to rummage through drawers or closets. Just a brief self-guided tour. And it must be brief. He would have to take in everything with the blink of an eye and sort out the details later.
The first room he entered was obviously the master bedroom. An elephantine four-poster, more than large enough to accommodate the two elder Hardwicks, dominated the center of the room. All the furniture was large and mahogany and reeked of antique. There were no traces of its inhabitants. No breath of perfume. No hint of aftershave. No evidence of recent habitation of any kind. The furnishings were so impersonal they might have just arrived from the showroom of a department store that afternoon. Either the owners had nothing to hide—or everything. The next room was even less revealing. A twin bed, a bureau, a dressing table. Not a single book, picture, or gewgaw to give the owner away. A guest room, no doubt, with no guest in residence. Perhaps it had been Bernice's room before she had moved to an apartment downtown. On the third try, he was rewarded. This room had obviously been recently occupied and abandoned in haste. It was a mess—bedspread rumpled, dressing table lamps left on, and books everywhere. In addition to
three bookcases crammed to capacity, there was a pile on the floor by the bed and two more untidy piles flowing around an easy chair by the window. Lydia had not exaggerated her passion for reading. The maid must have strict orders not to disturb this literary sanctuary. Fenimore went over to the chair and picked up a book that rested spread-eagle over one arm.
The Confidence Man
by Herman Melville. He remembered it vaguely—a dark, sardonic tale. He turned it over. In the margin, the reader had scribbled, “Are God and the devil one?” Carefully, he replaced it. The only other thing that caught his eye was a picture on the bureau—a single, silver-framed photograph of a man. Curious to see what sort of man would attract Lydia, he moved closer. Her brother, Ted.
The door to the next room was shut but not locked. Cautiously, he opened it. His heart stopped. A small, anxious-looking man stared back at him. It was a split second before he recognized his own reflection in a long mirror. Some cardboard cartons, a sewing machine, and an ironing board completed the furnishings of what was obviously a storeroom.
Fenimore closed the door and hurried to the last room at the end of the hall. It seemed to be a child's room. What child? Colored posters of Garfield and Winnie-the-Pooh hung on the walls. The window seat was covered with an assortment of teddy bears and dolls. A bunch of limp balloons drooped from a bedpost. A pair of pink bedroom slippers with bunny ears and faces peeked out from under the bed. On the windowsill was an aquarium. Smaller than the one downstairs, it was filled with tropical fish of many hues. Kitty. From her appearance, Fenimore had guessed her age to be about twenty, but her room was that of a child of ten. The fish peered back at him. He went over to the window seat and picked up a doll that was different from the others. Instead of painted plastic, it was made of cloth and stuffed with cotton. “Ouch!” He watched a spot of blood grow on the ball of his thumb. He sucked it dry and examined the doll
again. More than a dozen pins were sticking into various parts of its body. Wrapped around its head was a wide rubber band with three pigeon feathers tucked inside it—a crude attempt at an Indian headdress. He carefully replaced the doll among the others.
When he first heard the Labrador bark, Fenimore thought he was barking at something outside. Then he heard the click of the dog's toenails on the polished wooden stairs. These were followed by quick, feminine footsteps. They were coming down the hall, when he emerged from the room.
“Uh, I couldn't find the bathroom … .”
Despite her diminutive size, the young woman managed to hold onto the Lab's collar as he strained to get at Fenimore. She said nothing as she followed him with the dog along the hall, down the stairs, and to the front door. As he looked back, the tiny woman was still hanging onto the big Lab. She had no bright smile of farewell for him. (And dogs never smile. They just bare their teeth.) He closed the door and wondered what she would tell her mistress.
As he drove home, Fenimore kept repeating to himself, “The end justifies the means. The end …” It was no use. He would never make a good communist.

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