Motion to Kill

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Mason didn’t want to go home until he had a lot better idea who his friends were. The only way he knew to figure that out was to put this puzzle together from the beginning.

Kelly agreed not to arrest Mason for homicide, obstruction of justice, illegal parking, or any of the other offenses he’d committed in the last twenty-four hours. With a look that said she knew she would regret it, she went outside to call McNamara. She returned a few minutes later with a briefcase she tossed on the sofa and a sack of groceries she deposited in the kitchen.

“What did he say?” Mason asked.

She didn’t answer until she had emptied the contents of the sack on the table. A dozen eggs, butter, a pound of bacon, a gallon of orange juice, a loaf of Ozark Home Style Honey amp; Wheat Bread, and a jar of strawberry preserves.

“I like my eggs scrambled and the bacon crisp. Butter the toast lightly. I’ll get my own orange juice.”

Mason saluted and went to work.

Kelly continued. “McNamara accused me of harboring a potential suspect in a kidnapping investigation and threatened to have my badge. I told him he could have it if I got to pin it on.” Her mouth opened in a half-moon smile, her first of the day.

Mason negotiated an “I’ll cook and you clean” package with Blues and Sandra. Within minutes, the small cabin was brimming with the fragrance of Ozark smoked bacon snapping in the frying pan. Fresh air, hot food, and being alive, he thought. Things could be worse.

He sat on the sofa with Kelly while the dishes were washed. The fabric was rough tartan wool. The springs had long ago given up. The ones that still had some punch were pointed at odd angles guaranteed to poke where the sun didn’t shine. The floor was looking better to Mason all the time.

Mason retrieved his briefcase from Blues’s car and started reviewing the O’Malley summaries, looking for a thread to tie everything together. He was seeing the words without reading them. They were too familiar to him. He glanced at Kelly. She was equally glazed over, thumbing through reports she’d read a dozen times.

“Listen,” he suggested, “we both need a fresh approach. Let’s trade files. Maybe we’ll see something the other has missed.”

Kelly handed him her folder. Sullivan’s medical records from Charlie Morgenstern’s office were on top. The chart was organized chronologically with the most recent records on top. It was like reading Sullivan’s life story in reverse. He already knew the ending. He just hoped there was something useful in the past.

The first entry was impersonal. Patient died in boating accident, Lake of Ozarks, July 3-date estimated-await autopsy from coroner. No hint of a twenty-plus-year friendship. Mason hoped when his doctor made his final entry for him that he at least rated a “poor Lou” instead of the anonymous “patient died.”

There were weekly entries since Sullivan’s diagnosis of HIV, regular blood work and prescriptions. Mason expected to find records of multiple injections, but there weren’t any. He’d assumed that the needle marks found at autopsy were treatment related, but the records didn’t support that. He started writing a list of questions on a legal pad, beginning with Needle marks?

Prior to the HIV diagnosis, Sullivan’s records were routine and uninteresting. His weight fluctuated between 150 and 160 pounds. His blood pressure was generally around 120/80. He never showed any signs of masses or lumps. His chest X-rays were clean. He rarely had a cold and had never been hospitalized in the twenty-two years that Morgenstern had been his doctor.

An entry dated September 29, 1987, caught Mason’s eye-Sample drawn and delivered to Comm. B. B. The next entry was three days later and was written in physician shorthand that he could only partly decipher: TC from Dr. Ashland, Comm. B. B.-pt’s sample 95 %+.

“Kelly, what do you think this means?” Mason handed her the chart and pointed out the entries.

She studied the entries, knitting her brow, double-checking for anything that would shed light on their meaning. The cabin resonated with the mixed scents of pine logs, remnants of breakfast, and musty upholstery. The potpourri couldn’t hide her fragrance. It was subtle, spicy, and elusive. He inhaled deeply and realized his last shower had been a day and a half ago. Not wanting to spoil the moment, he edged away from her.

“The records don’t explain it,” she said.

“Let me have a look,” Sandra said. “I used to spend half my time reading medical records. ‘Comm. B. B.’ is probably the community blood bank. My guess is they tested him for something and the results were ninety-five percent positive.”

“Most doctors send their lab work out, but not to the community blood bank. Why would Morgenstern use them?” Mason asked.

“Could be a lot of things, I guess; hepatitis, special blood counts, paternity. The easiest way to find out is to ask Charlie Morgenstern.”

“I’ll make the call,” Kelly said. “In the meantime, Lou, do us all a favor and take a shower.”

Mason coaxed a thin, lukewarm stream from the single-setting showerhead. Julio’s boot had left an angry inkblot on his left side. Raising his arm above his head, he peered at his side, examining the yellow and purple tinges that were forming in the blood pooled beneath his skin. He fingered the area gingerly, afraid to discover what fractured ribs were supposed to feel like. He was encouraged when his palpations didn’t produce shivers of pain.

An odorless scrap of soap was stuck like a piece of gum on the underside of the soap dish. It yielded a pale film that was harder to rinse off than it was to scrub on. The total effect was like an economy car wash-one pass without the undercarriage blast. Putting yesterday’s clothes back on made the entire effort a break-even proposition. He was half clean, uncombed and unshaven, and starting to blend in with the logs.

When he came back into the front room, Kelly and Blues were deep into the O’Malley papers. They had spread the summaries on the floor and were taking notes. Sandra was rereading Sullivan’s medical records.

Kelly’s phone rang, interrupting the study group. She listened, said thank you, and hung up, smiling. This one was wide, toothy, and satisfied.

“That was Dr. Morgenstern. Sullivan took a paternity test and passed. He’s a daddy.”