Silent Treatment

Chapter19

The discovery of a man shot to death inCentral Park made the late-night news and the morning papers. Police locatedthe body at ten P.M. following an anonymous phone tip from a male caller. The victimcarried no wallet and as yet had not been identified. Preliminary impressionwas robbery, but police were not ruling out the possibility that the shootingwas an execution.

Harry entered the hospital for morningrounds, his thoughts in their now-usual state of disarray. The mysterysurrounding Evie's death remained as murky as ever. And now other unansweredquestions had darkened the picture even more. Who had been down there on thepath in Central Park, silenced revolver in hand, ready and quite able to kill?Could the arrival of their savior have possibly been a coincidence? Was he someanticrime vigilante? No explanation made much sense.

A few things, very few, seemed apparent.Harry remained convinced that his life was not in jeopardy — he was being keptaround to deflect responsibility for Evie's murder. Maura's continued survivalwas not nearly so assured, though. Maybe Albert Dickinson gave her eyewitnessaccount no credence whatsoever, but clearly the murderer did.

Throughout the night she had said littleof her ordeal. But Harry shuddered at the thought of what it must have beenlike for her, a killer's hands tightening around her throat, her spine bowednear the breaking point.

After leaving the park, the two of themhad gone to Harry's apartment. Maura's place, they decided, was simply toovulnerable. And although Rocky, the night doorman, was hardly the sort ofprotection that would put one's mind at ease, he was better than nothing. Maurawas certain that by filing a formal report supporting her story, her brotherhad already put his future in the department in jeopardy. This time around sheinsisted that he not be involved — at least not in any official capacity. Harrydid not completely agree, but with all she had endured, there was no way he wasgoing to try and change her mind. He reported the Central Park body to 911 froma pay phone. For the time being, Tom Hughes would be left out of it.

Once in the apartment they settled on tothe sofa in the small, oak-paneled den and turned on the television. Maura,physically drained, said little. She sipped herbal tea, nibbled some shortbreadcookies, and stared at the screen. In just over an hour, the first news reportappeared on Channel 2, announcing the homicide near the reservoir in Central Park.

'Okay, Harry,' she said when the briefreport was complete, 'I think I'm ready. Could you please tell me what's goingon?'

'I wish I knew,' he responded.

He told her about the bewildering,depressing discoveries he had made in Evie's Greenwich Village apartment. Hetold her what he remembered of the doctor with the cultured accent, and of thetwo men with him who had then assaulted them in the park. Maura listenedwithout interruption.

'So, it's all about sex,' she said when hehad finished.

'In a way, I guess you could say that,yes. Somewhere in her — what would you call it? research? — Evie apparentlycrossed the wrong person. Whoever it was murdered her — or more likely had hermurdered — in a way that should not have aroused any suspicion whatsoever. Aneurysmslike hers rupture all the time. I'm certain there wasn't supposed to be anyflap about it or any autopsy. But Caspar Sidonis's claim that I had reason tokill her changed all that. Now, whoever really did it is committed toproving Sidonis is right.'

'And to eliminating the only eyewitness aswell,' Maura added. 'Harry. . Evie sounds like such a sad, mixed-up soul.'

'Believe me when I tell you she didn'tcome across that way.'

'What about children? Didn't you want themwhen you got married?'

'Oh, very much.'

'But she didn't?'

'She used to say she did, but — notreally. Look, I know it sounds like I should have gotten out of the marriageyears ago, or never gotten into it in the first place. But believe it or not,taken on a day-to-day basis, it really wasn't that bad. We were like a lot ofcouples. We got up, went to work, had a reasonable amount of money, hadfriends, went on an occasional vacation, bought some nice things, made love — at least in the beginning. I took care of my patients, played my music, did myworkouts, jogged through the park. I guess I just didn't look at it all tooclosely.'

'I understand. I think everyone who's in abad marriage is guilty of wearing blinders — sometimes for a long while.' Sheleaned back and closed her eyes. 'There's still plenty of time, Harry.'

'For what?'

She yawned and stretched. 'For whatever…'

Hours later, damp with sweat, Harry awokefrom a dream he had experienced many times before. It was a Nha-trang dream,viewed along the barrel of Harry's gun. Beyond the end of the barrel, a youngVietcong soldier is raising his weapon. His face and expression are indeliblein Harry's mind. Eyes widening in fear, he tries to level his semiautomatic.Harry's gun discharges. The youth's chest burst open like a ripe melon. He ishurled backward into oblivion. Moments later another soldier, even younger thanthe first, steps into view at the end of the barrel. He spots Harry and thewounded man on the ground beside him. He raises his weapon. Harry's gundischarges once again. .

The television flickered across thedarkened room, its volume barely audible. Maura Hughes, covered with a woolenthrow, lay sleeping beside him, her head resting on his lap. Harry clicked offthe set and sat in the near blackness, gently stroking her face and herdownlike new hair. Not once during the entire evening had she made excuses forherself or her life, or tried to rationalize her drinking. Not once had shewhined about the deadly situation into which she had been thrust. She might nothave medals as proof, but in her own way, Maura Hughes was pretty damn heroic.And Harry felt drawn to her in a most powerful way. He shifted his legs. Shemoaned softly, then rolled onto her back and looked up at him.

'Mmmm. Am I keeping you up?' she askeddreamily.

'No. Lately I've spent more nights on thissofa than in bed. Why don't you go on into the guest room and get some realsleep?'

'Is staying out here like this analternative?'

'If you want.'

Heavy-lidded, she smiled up at him, thenrolled back on to her side.

'I want,' she murmured. .

Harry had three patients in the hospital.The first, a four-year-old girl with asthma, was ready for discharge. Harrywrote out detailed instructions for the mother, who was scarcely more than achild herself. But no amount of information or reassurance seemed to be enoughto calm her. Finally, Harry took a business card from his wallet.

'Here, Naomi,' he said, writing on theback of the card. 'This is my home phone number. If there's any problem withKeesha, you don't even have to call the answering service unless I'm not home.But she's going to do fine.'

The teen slipped the card into the pocketof her jeans, then finally accepted the discharge and Harry's efforts by givinghim a hug.

The second patient, an elderly man, had beentransferred back to Harry from a cardiologist following an uneventful three-daystay in the CCU. He was a toothless old gent who had been pleasantly confusedfor as long as Harry had been his doctor, now fifteen or so years. With socialservices and the visiting nurses teaming up on his case, there was a goodchance he'd be back in his own place within the week. He patted Harry on theback, called him Dr. Carson, and told him to keep trying and he would be a verygood doctor some day.

Harry smiled sadly at the thought of howtypical, how utterly humdrum normal, rounds like today's once were. Now, as hemoved through the hospital, he was aware of the stares, and the pointedfingers, and the whispers.

That's the man. The doctor whokilled his wife. I can't believe they let him just walk around the hospitallike this.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor ofthe Alexander Building. The car was the very same one in which he had riddendown with Mel Wetstone. That time, Evie's killer had been one of the crowdpacked in with them. This time, he was alone.

The final patient he had to see was inAlexander 505 — a thirty-three-year-old architect named Andy Barlow. Barlow hadbeen HIV-positive for two years and was now battling Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia,the first indication that he had developed full-blown AIDS. During those twosymptom-free years, Barlow had continued work at his job with a midtown firm,volunteered countless hours at a hospice for the homeless and disenfranchised,and led the campaign for expanded needle exchange and improved local servicesfor AIDS patients.

Another legitimate hero, Harry thought as he entered theroom.

Andy Barlow, oxygen prongs in place, didnot look as good as Harry would have wished. His color was sallow and somewhatdusky, his lips more purplish than they should have been. He sat propped up atan eighty-degree angle, quietly working to get air into his lungs. Still, hemanaged a smile.

'Hey, Doc,' he said, the words punctuatedwith coughs.

'Hi, yourself.'

Harry pulled up a chair and sat, flippingthrough the pages in Barlow's chart. The reports — blood count, oxygen levels,chemistries, chest film — actually looked better than the patient did. Theywere reason to be at least a little encouraged.

'What's the news?' Barlow asked.

'Well, the returns from these key upstateprecincts say we're winning,' Harry said.

'Tell that to my lungs.'

That bad?'

'Actually not,' Andy said, and paused forbreath. 'My breathing's a bit easier and I'm not coughing nearly as much.' Hecoughed again several times and then laughed at himself. 'As usual, the manspeaketh too soon.'

Harry examined his throat, chest, heart,and abdomen.

'Not bad,' he said, now genuinelyencouraged. 'How's your head?'

Andy shrugged. 'I think being HIV-positivefor a couple of years has helped a bit in getting ready for this, but I'm stillpissed and. . and a little frightened.'

'Me, too,' Harry said.

'I know. And I appreciate your saying it.'

Andy Barlow wasn't the first patient withAIDS Harry had cared for, or even the tenth. Healthy habits, exercise,preventive medications, and aggressive treatment of infections had made asignificant contribution to the quality and quantity of each of their lives.But a number of them had already died. This lung infection marked Barlow'sfirst step on a new road. The questions of whether and when he would developthe full-blown disease had been answered. Now, physician and patient had toreorder their priorities and their expectations. Harry feigned another chestexam until he was fairly certain his own emotions were under control.

'You know,' Andy said, 'don't take thispersonally, but I don't think I fear dying as much as I fear being sick all thetime. I've spent so much time in hospitals with my friends, I just dreadbecoming one of them.'

'I understand. Well, I promise you I'mgoing to do everything I can to get you out of here pronto and to keep you out.And as far as getting sick over and over goes, I know nothing I say can takeaway that worry. Just try to focus on the truth that today is what you have — it'sall that any of us have. The only thing you can do is try to live it to thefullest.'

'Keep reminding me.'

'I will if you want me to. Now listen. Ireally do think the IV Bactrim has turned the tide. Your film's a littlebetter, and so's your blood count.'

'Good, because I'm one of the principledesigners of the renovations on the Claridge Performing Arts Center, and I wantto be at the opening production on the twenty-first.'

'Ten days? Hey, no problem, mon. With mystethoscope tied behind my back, even.'

'Guaranteed?'

'You have my word.'

Andy, an IV in his right hand, reached outand grasped Harry's right hand with his left.

Harry squeezed his hand, then turnedquickly and left the room. This was a situation he would never get used to orinured to. And in truth, he never wanted to be.

He returned to the nurse's station andwrote some orders for intensified respiratory therapy on Andy Barlow. Nearby,two nurses were chatting with the unit secretary. He had known each of themcordially for some time, in one case many years. Now, none of the three brokefrom their conversation to acknowledge him. He flagged the new orders and setthe three-ring notebook chart on the secretary's desk.

'Just a few new orders,' he said.

'Thank you, Doctor,' the woman repliedwithout looking over. 'I'll take care of it.'

Harry gave momentary thought to forcing aconfrontation with the group — a plea against being judged prematurely. Hedecided against it. Constitutional guarantees notwithstanding, he knew that inmany minds he was guilty until proven otherwise. As long as his situationremained unresolved, there would be coolness and distance and silence. Andthere wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

He trotted down to the first floor and outof the hospital. The morning was cloudless and warm, and with twenty minutesbefore his first office patient he could actually walk slowly enough toappreciate it. He wondered how Maura was doing. By the time he had left forwork, the reality of her situation had begun to sink in for her. She seemedirritable — deflated and distracted. And although she didn't say so, Harrysensed she was thinking about how much easier everything would be with a drink.They had decided that she would return to her apartment with a friend of hers,pack some things, and move into Harry's place for a few days. Meanwhile, shecould decide about calling her brother. When she did move back to her ownplace, Harry offered to hire a security guard.

'Until when?' she asked.

Harry didn't try arguing with her on thatpoint. Especially since she was right. If someone, particularly a professional,wanted badly enough to kill her, she would have to go into the deepest hiding,or else sooner or later she would be dead. It was that simple.

There was one person seated in the waitingroom of Harry's office when he arrived, a man he had never seen before. Hisface, hollow-eyed and gaunt, spoke of hard times. His black, graying hair wasclose-cut, and there was nervous tension about him that Harry could almostfeel. He had on faded jeans, worn sneakers, and a navy-blue windbreaker with aYankees logo on one breast. Harry nodded a greeting before heading into MaryTobin's cubicle. The man responded with a thin smile.

'Who's our friend?' Harry whispered,studying the appointment book, which showed a number of cancellations and noname written in this time slot.

'His name is Walter Concepcion. He'sunemployed and has no insurance.'

'What else is new.'

'He's been having headaches.'

'Who referred him?'

'Believe it or not, he says he read aboutyou in the papers.'

'Doctor suspected of murdering his wife — what better recommendation could any patient want?'

'Well,' Mary said, 'you've never turnedany patient away that I could remember, so I took the liberty of having himfill out a registration sheet and questionnaire.'

'Fine. It doesn't exactly look like we'regoing to get buried in an avalanche of appointments.'

'Oh, we'll be all right. Tell me, though.How're you doing?'

Aside from almost getting Maurakilled last night, witnessing a murder, and having almost no idea what in thehell is going on, not bad. Not bad at all.

'I go to bed confused, I wake upconfused,' he said instead.

'That doesn't make you any different fromthe rest of us,' Mary said, smiling. 'You just hang in there an' the answerswill come.'

She looked as strained and tired as he hadever seen her. Yet here she was with anxious callers to assuage, cancellationsto accept without comment, reporters to fend off, and she was concerned withhow he was doing. Harry added her to his list of heroes.

He picked up the clipboard with the healthquestionnaire his new patient had filled out. Walter Concepcion was forty-five,with no phone, a next-of-kin — his brother in Los Angeles, and an address inSpanish Harlem. As Mary had warned, he had no health insurance. But he did listan occupation — private investigator. Harry introduced himself andmotioned the man to follow him to his office.

'I was a licensed PI,' Concepcion explainedin response to Harry's question. 'But I got in a little trouble a few yearsback and they pulled my ticket.' His New York accent, without a hint of Latino,suggested he was U.S. born. 'Next March I'm eligible to get it back. I still dosome jobs for people, but under the table, if you know what I mean.'

The tension Harry had sensed in thewaiting room was physically apparent in an intermittent tic of the muscles onthe right side of Concepcion's face, and in his fingers, which seemed to be inalmost constant motion.

'The trouble you got into,' Harry said.'Drugs?'

Without hesitation, Concepcion nodded.'Cocaine. Crack, actually. I thought I could handle it.'

'No one can.'

'You got that right. I been clean foralmost three years now, though. No drugs, no booze, no wine. Nothing. Not thatI deserve a medal or anything, but I've gotten my act back together.'

'That is a big accomplishment,'Harry said. 'There's no need to put it down.' He liked the man's directness.Concepcion's eyes, though deeply sunken, were bright and intelligent, and madesteady, level contact with Harry's.

'Well, Mr. Concepcion, I have about twentyminutes before my next patient is due,' Harry said. 'Headaches are among thehardest symptoms to diagnose correctly, but I'll do my best. You may have tocome back another time or two.'

That's okay with me, Doc, as long as I canstretch out my payments. I'm not broke, but I do have to balance who gets what,if you now what I mean.'

'No problem,' Harry said. 'Why don't yougo on down to room two on the left. I'll take a brief history and examine youthere.'

Concepcion rose and left the room just asHarry's private line began ringing.

The private line, direct to the backoffice, enabled Harry to make calls without tying up an office line. It also ensuredthat emergency calls from the hospital wouldn't encounter a busy signal.

'Dr. Corbett,' he said, flipping through asmall stack of mail, mostly junk, that Mary had left on his desk.

'I am very upset with you, Doctor,' thefamiliar, slightly accented voice said. 'Very upset.'

Harry tensed. Even if he could somehowalert Mary, there was no extension to this line at the front desk.

'Who are you?' he demanded.

'The man you trapped and killed somercilessly last night meant a great deal to me.'

The words were spoken without emotion.

'Listen, I didn't trap anyone. Your goonstried to kill us. I'm not sorry someone saved our lives. But I have no idea whodid it.'

'I think you're lying, Dr. Corbett. Iblame myself for not considering that you might have arranged to have yourselffollowed. But I think you'll see that it was an unfortunate, foolish thing foryou to do. Very unfortunate and very foolish.'

'Who are you? Why are you doing this? Whydid you kill Evie?'

'You have become a great inconvenience tome, Dr. Corbett,' the soft voice went on. 'And I intend to do something aboutit. It would make things much easier for any number of people if you would justfind some clever, painless way to take your own life.'

'Go to hell.'

'Dead or in prison for life. I am afraidthose are now the only options available to you. If you don't wish to killyourself now, I promise you will before I am through. The man you arranged tohave gunned down last night was a close associate of mine. He will be avenged.'

'Why can't you just leave us alone? I haveno idea who you are, and neither does Maura Hughes. She doesn't remember onething from her time in the hospital. Nothing.'

'Ah, would that I could believe that. Now,then, we come back to the dual issue of your punishment and your suicide — bothof which I consider essential. To show you how serious I am about this, I havechosen that young gentleman you were speaking to not so long ago. Barlow isit?'

'You bastard! Don't you touch him!'

'A nice enough fellow, it seems, but mostunfortunate in having you for his physician.'

'No!'

'Consider your options, Dr. Corbett. IVmorphine is totally painless. Any number of sleeping pills would do the trickfor you as well. So would carbon monoxide. Falling from a great height wouldprovide a wonderful rush I would think, and would only hurt for a moment. Abullet upward through the palate would probably hurt even less.'

'Please,' Harry begged. 'Please give metime. Give me time to decide.'

'Oh, you have all the time you want.'

'Thank you. Thank you very much.'

'But I'm afraid Mr. Barlow has no time atall. Good day, Doctor.'

'Nooo!' Harry bellowed as the dial toneintervened. 'Damn you, no!'

Harry looked up at that moment andrealized that Walter Concepcion was standing just outside his door.

'I … I just wanted to know if I shouldget changed,' he said, embarrassed.

Mary Tobin, responding to Harry's shout,came rushing past him and into the office.

'Call Alexander Five,' he ordered. 'Tellthem to get someone into room five-oh-five now. Andrew Barlow. Roomfive-oh-five. I'm on my way over.'

'Yes, Doctor,' Mary Tobin said.

'Mr. Concepcion, you'll have to come backanother time.'

Without waiting for a response, Harrybolted past the bewildered man, out of the office, and across the sunlit street.It was six blocks to the Manhattan Medical Center.