The Society

CHAPTER 13

“You’ve got to be kidding, Sergeant.”

Benois Beane, seated in a well-worn leather easy chair in his office, stared across at Patty, shaking his head in utter disbelief.

“It’s the truth. His body was loaded with a very powerful narcotic-one that doctors, but not most other people, would have easy access to.”

From the moment they first shook hands, Patty liked the Open Hearth director. There was an engaging openness to him and an appealing wisdom in his face that she guessed was born of hard times. She had phoned him and driven over to the soup kitchen after a stop in the ICU at Fredrickston General.

Shortly after she had been raked over the coals by Wayne Brasco and Jack Court for withholding the information about Will Grant from them, a call from her father alerted her to the latest bizarre twist in the managed-care case-the drug overdose of their only suspect. Sitting in on the tense meeting with Court and Brasco had been Sean Digby, a young, eager detective who had come on board about six months after Patty and been immediately accepted by the guys. This was the first time Digby had attended one of their skull sessions on this case, and Patty had no trouble figuring out why. He was clearly being groomed to take her place should she falter any more, and calling him in like this was a strident warning that she was skating on thin ice.

Unwilling to make any moves without clearing them with both Brasco and Court, she called the two men together and asked permission to go out and check on the situation at Fredrickston General. Their response was predictable.

“So, what is this?” Brasco exclaimed. “You called us in to tell us you want to go out and check on a guy in a coma? What’s next? You’ll call a meeting if you want to blow your nose?”

“You know, Patty,” Court added, “you’ve got to show more independence in this thing. You don’t have to check with us for everything you learn or do-just the important things.”

No surprise. She was damned if she involved the two of them and utterly damned if she didn’t. Was it that she was a woman? That she was her father’s daughter? That she had a master’s degree in criminal justice? That she had an independent streak? Probably all of the above and none of the above. And there was nothing she could do about it, absolutely nothing, except put one foot in front of the other and take the path that felt right. Quitting was not an option.

Will was still sedated when Patty arrived at the ICU. The nurses she spoke with seemed shocked about what had happened in the OR and what had subsequently been discovered in his blood and urine, but they were also disappointed and angry. Will Grant certainly wasn’t the first physician they had grown to love and respect who turned out to have a hidden problem with alcohol or drugs, but he was the first one to have unveiled his shortcoming in such a spectacular way.

“Must have just gone for a little more of a thrill and overshot,” Anne Hajjar said with a matter-of-factness that seemed blatantly forced.

Patty did learn that absolutely none of the staff saw this one coming. If Will Grant had any faults as a doc, they were that he cared too much, often hurt too deeply when things didn’t go well, and spent way too much time in the hospital. Otherwise, as a physician and as a man, he was the total package.

“Before this happened,” Hajjar said, “we all thought Dr. Grant was the catch of the year, even though it seemed he never left the hospital long enough to date.”

“I expect he’ll have a good bit of free time now,” Donna Lee added. “I just hope he uses it to get some help.”

More confused about Will Grant than ever, Patty had left the hospital and driven over to keep her appointment with Benois Beane, whom she tracked down after discovering Will had won an unsung hero award from the Boston Celtics for the work he did at the Open Hearth. Following her session with Will in his office, it was easy for her to believe he had no involvement in the managed-care slayings. Now, however, there could be no way around the fact that he had taken a potent narcotic and then attempted to perform surgery.

Would the real Will Grant please stand up?

“Sergeant Moriarity,” Benois Beane was saying, “we have twenty-eight people who work here and a couple of hundred who volunteer regularly and probably know Will Grant. I’d wager not one of them would believe he knowingly took drugs and went into the OR.”

Let alone killed three people, Patty almost added, but didn’t.

“I just don’t get it, then,” she said. “The drug was in his blood. That’s a given.”

“I don’t care. If it was in his body, someone put it there.”

“Tell me how.”

“I can’t, but I can sort of prove he doesn’t take narcotics.”

“Go on.”

“A few months ago, maybe three, one of our regulars, Sophie Rennet, died after a long battle with cancer. Will was her surgeon and did his best, but the cancer had gone too far from the start. It just so happened that one night when Will was working here, Sophie’s family called to say that she had passed on. Will and I both went over to her place to pay our respects and for Will to pronounce her dead so the mortuary could come and get her. As we were leaving, her son handed us a box containing her medications, saying he hoped maybe someone else could use them. Inside were bottles and bottles and vials and vials of narcotics-all kinds of narcotics. Once we got back here, Will took a hammer to each of the vials and flushed the pills down the toilet. I saw him do it.”

“But he could have just as easily told you he was taking the medicine back to his office.”

“Exactly. I have known a lot of addicts in my day, a lot of addicts, and not one of them would have thrown away such a stash. I would think that’s got to prove something.”

Patty thought of several rebuttals to Beane’s logic, but she knew in her heart that none of them carried much clout.

“Are you sure he’s awake?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s got to wake up sometime.”

Hospital president Sid Silverman’s distinctive tenor worked its way into the darkness. The other voice, irritated and sardonic, was Donna Lee’s. The veteran nurse and Silverman, once an endocrinologist on the staff of FGH, had known each other for years. Now they had something else in common-a clear distaste for one Will Grant. Will tested his arms and legs and found that the wrist restraints were back in place. Shit.

“I just came from the recovery room,” Silverman was saying. “The guy looks bad, real bad. His blood pressure won’t stay up. There’s talk about bringing him back into the OR to open him up again and see if something’s bleeding.”

“That’s terrible,” Donna said.

“You’re damn right it is. If he doesn’t make it, his family could end up owning this place.”

“I doubt they’d want it. Well, go on in there. We haven’t given him anything for a while, so he should be pretty light.”

Will kept his eyes closed but sensed Silverman approaching his bed. He pictured the man glaring down at him, his paunch stretching the vest of his trademark three-piece suit.

“Welcome to the ICU, Sid,” he said keeping his eyes shut for a few more seconds, then slowly opening them. “I don’t suppose it matters to you, but I didn’t take any fentanyl.”

“It was in your blood and in your urine,” Silverman said flatly. “Do you have any explanation that I can give to the executive committee when they meet in an hour?”

“I didn’t take anything. Listen, can you crank me up halfway? I don’t like lying flat like this. I feel like I’m on a slab getting ready to be sacrificed.”

Silverman hesitated, then raised the head of the bed.

“And while you’re at it, Sid, could you please tell the nurses to take these restraints off? I’m not going to cause any trouble. Promise.”

“I’ll send the nurses in when I’m finished,” Silverman said. “I asked if you had any explanation for how the fentanyl got into your body.”

“Maybe someone put it in my breakfast. Everyone knows I have OJ and a jelly stick on the days when I operate. Maybe someone injected it in there.”

“Maybe. You’re also going to have to explain how two unopened vials of the stuff got into your locked locker in the surgeons’ lounge.”

“That’s absurd.”

“The locker was opened and there was the fentanyl, wrapped in a washcloth.”

“The same person who poisoned me put them there. Can’t you see that? And, Sid, not that I have anything to hide, but you had no right to open my locker without my permission.”

“I didn’t open it, Will. The police did. They got a warrant very quickly. Your locker and your office, and maybe your condo as well.”

“Jesus. Sid, can’t you see that this is all a setup? Someone’s doing this to me. Someone who knows me pretty damn well or has made it their business to learn about me.”

“Like the evil managed-care companies?”

“Don’t be snide. I haven’t the strength or the inclination to deal with it right now.”

“Okay, then, here’s the situation. I’m recommending to the executive committee that you be suspended from the staff immediately until this matter can be resolved. I actually have the authority to do this myself, but I want their support.”

“Why don’t you just ask me to take a week’s leave or something? I promise I won’t work until I get clearance from the executive committee. Besides, don’t suspensions have to be reported to the Board of Registration?”

“Any change in privileges gets reported. Will, you should use the time off to check yourself into a treatment center someplace. Get in touch with the physician-health people at the medical society and have them recommend a good one.”

Will sensed himself about to blow. Fists balled, he forced his hands upward until the broad restraints cut into his wrists.

“I didn’t take anything,” he said through nearly clenched teeth. “I have never taken anything, and I’m not going to any goddamn treatment center.”

“Suit yourself,” Silverman said, his stubby fingers wrapped around the bed rail. “You’re going to have a day after you’re discharged from here to get your strength back, then twenty-four hours to wrap up your dictations and any other business here. After that, until you’re convicted or cleared of drug charges, I don’t want you near this hospital. I’m sorry, Will. I had hoped you’d be more forthcoming.” He turned and strode to the doorway, then turned back. “Our PR people are together right now working on damage control, but there’s no way we can keep this from becoming a media circus as soon as the press gets word of what happened. And believe me, they will hear about it. I’d suggest you notify Maxine so she can prepare your children. I would also give your malpractice carrier a call so they can keep on top of things.”

Silverman left, and a few minutes later Anne Hajjar came in and removed Will’s restraints.

“Dr. Millstein will be up in a little while,” she said.

“I want to sign out.”

“Please wait and speak with him.”

“It won’t matter. He can discharge me or I’ll sign out AMA. I didn’t take any drugs and I want out of here.”

“Dr. Grant, please. Just don’t do anything crazy until Ken gets here. We have a security guard right outside.”

“I won’t cause any trouble. Anne, you’ve known me for years. Do you think I’m someone who would take drugs and then go into the operating room to do a complicated case?”

“I only know what I hear,” she said. “I hope it turns out you didn’t, but I admit it sounds like you did. By the way, your wife called from the lobby. She’s on her way up.”

It’s ex-wife, Will wanted to say, but didn’t bother.

Maxine, stylishly dressed as always, today in a floral print silk blouse, navy blazer, and gray slacks, knocked on the doorway and nodded gravely to the nurse as they passed.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Physically I’m fine. How’d you know I was here?”

“Gordon called and told me, then a few minutes after that, Karen Millstein called.”

“I could win the Nobel Prize and news wouldn’t travel any faster.”

“In case you don’t know it, you didn’t win the Nobel Prize.”

“I didn’t take any drugs, either.”

“Gordon said it was in your blood and urine.”

“I didn’t take any drugs.”

Will wondered how many times he would say the phrase over the hours, days, and weeks ahead.

“I thought you’d been acting strange lately.”

“You came to tell me I’ve been acting strange?”

“I came to see if you’re all right.”

“I’m not all right. I didn’t take any fentanyl and nobody believes that.”

“You passed out in the operating room and then stopped breathing and then had the drug in your blood and urine. What are people supposed to think?”

“I didn’t take any drugs. Sid Silverman was just here. I’m about to be suspended from the staff.”

“What else could they do?”

“He says the media is going to be all over this. We’ve got to try our best to protect the kids. Maybe you should go away for a week until the firestorm blows past.”

“Maybe we will. Listen, Will, Mark and I talked and decided that until this business is resolved, I’m going to limit your visitation with the twins-no visits for the next week, then once a week in the playroom or yard at our place, three hours maximum, supervised. That is, provided your psychiatrist says it’s safe.”

“I don’t see a psychiatrist.”

“You will now.”

“That’s ridiculous. You can’t do that.”

“Can and will. Don’t make me go to court for a restraining order. Besides, if our situations were reversed, you know you’d do the same thing.”

Will sank back and stared at the ceiling. This wasn’t the time or place to battle Maxine, especially when he was totally outgunned. He lived for his medical practice and time with his children. Now, in a matter of just a few hours, he had lost both.

Who? Why? How?

For the first time, the questions took center stage in his mind.

Was the managed-care killer somehow involved? If so, to what end? He was supposed to be the ally of the movement. Why would they want to destroy him?

“Will? Are you listening to me? I asked if you thought you might be sued for this.”

“How should I know?” he replied, still staring overhead. “If I’m sued, I’m sued. That’s why I have malpractice.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Maxine said, “but if you’re sued for this, you don’t have malpractice. Have you forgotten?”

The clause! In fact, he had forgotten. In an effort to stem the bleeding from malpractice premiums that were going through the roof, Fredrickston Surgical Associates had decided to switch their coverage to PSF-Physicians Security Fund-a small physician-owned company based in Indiana. Among several clauses designed to keep premiums down was one omitting coverage for any incident involving the use of alcohol or other mind-altering drugs. It was not surprising that Maxine knew the details of his malpractice insurance better than he did. She was a businesswoman, and an avaricious one at that. If he were wiped out by a claim, which as of this moment seemed exceedingly possible, her finances would take a significant hit.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just can’t get worked up about that right now.”

“But it’s true.”

“Yes, I suspect it’s true.”

“Damn you, Will. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

Wolf Hollow Condominiums was a well-maintained, middle-class development situated a few miles outside the city. Will’s unit, a two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath town house, was in the block farthest from the clubhouse and outdoor pool, thus bringing its cost down from absolutely prohibitive for him to merely unaffordable. Still, the kids enjoyed the pool and the game room, and had actually made some friends there. It would be hard to one day have to tell them that the place had become the property of Kurt Goshtigian or his heirs.

It was nearly eight when Will arrived home, having signed out against medical advice. Ken Millstein simply refused to authorize an early discharge for someone who had spent a large portion of the day on a vent due to a massive drug overdose and respiratory arrest. If nothing else, he insisted on a psych evaluation to determine whether or not Will was a danger to himself or anyone else. Ultimately, Will relented, and a colorless shrink named Yvonne Sands took more than an hour to determine that he was, in fact, mentally able to go home. Still, Millstein made him sign the AMA papers.

As Sid Silverman had predicted, the executive committee voted unanimously to suspend him from the hospital staff until his situation could be resolved. It seemed like only a matter of time before the Board of Registration suspended him, as well. Was there any way his disability insurance would pay anything without insisting he admit that he was an addict? Maybe he could claim a severe, paralytic depression and simply crawl into bed for a year or two. At the moment, such a diagnosis would not be stretching the truth very far. Will pulled into his parking space, grateful that no reporters or cameramen were lurking about, but he knew it was just a matter of time before they descended on 10-108 Wolf Hollow Drive, hungering for any ort of information about him and his life.

Compared to the house in Ashford, the condo was quite modest. Even so, Will liked the hardwood floors and the view of the woods out back, and bit by bit, as the bookshelves filled and art-framed prints or the twins’ masterpieces-began to fill the walls, the place had become home. There was no evidence inside that the police had been there yet. Feeling numb and detached from his life, Will brewed a pot of tea, then sank onto the couch in the small den.

Who? Why? How? After a few minutes, the three burning questions were joined by a fourth: What now? He wanted to fight back-needed to fight back-but he knew things were only going to get worse. A lawyer? Probably that was the place to begin. He really didn’t know any who handled this sort of thing. Thanks to the no-drug clause, there was no chance his malpractice company would provide one, and the incompetent weasel who had handled his divorce would probably succeed in getting him the gas chamber. What sort of retainers did lawyers charge these days, anyhow? At a recent Society meeting he had heard of one insisting on $50,000 up front. Was that possible?

The divorce and ongoing settlement payments had hit his finances hard, as had increasingly restrictive managed-care policies. He had maybe ten thousand in the bank, fifty or so in his retirement fund, and perhaps thirty that he could wring out of the condo. Not much to show for seven years in surgical practice. Jim Katz knew a lot of well-placed people. Maybe he or one of the other two partners could recommend someone.

Will sipped at his tea and stared across at the dark screen of the TV.

Shit. What in the hell had just happened to his life?

The doorbell had rung several times before he became aware of it. Let the circus begin, he thought. The guest bathroom overlooked the parking lot. Rather than answer the door, he went upstairs, carefully opened that bathroom window, and peered down. Patty Moriarity, alone, paced back and forth across the front stoop. Faced with the vast emptiness of his condo and, in fact, his world, a visit even from her was welcome.

“I’ll be right there,” he called down.

“The Fredrickston PD called and told us what happened,” she said when he opened the door. “I checked with the ICU at the hospital and they told me you were about to sign yourself out. So I decided to see if I could catch up with you here.”

He motioned her into the living room. She was wearing black jeans and the leather jacket he had now come to associate with her, and aside from maybe a little lipstick, wore no makeup. There was no gun that he could see, but he imagined a shoulder holster or a pistol strapped to her ankle.

“It’s locked in the car,” she said before he could ask.

“Just wondered.”

Keeping her jacket on, she settled in at one end of the burgundy sofa Gordo had given him for his then-new place, while he took the recliner the people at the Open Hearth had chipped in to buy for him.

“So,” she said, “it sounds like you’ve had a time of it since we last spoke.”

“Calling it the day from hell wouldn’t do it justice.”

“I haven’t spoken to the DA yet, but the FPD guys tell me there’s a chance you’ll be arrested soon for the drugs they found in your locker. I suppose there’s a chance the DA could go for an attempted-manslaughter charge if the guy makes it, and maybe manslaughter if he doesn’t.”

“That’s great, just great. Sergeant Moriarity, I didn’t take any drugs. Someone did this to me.”

“The killer?”

“I have no idea. Why would he do something like that? He said I was going to be his buddy from now on-his spokesman.”

“You don’t take drugs of any kind?”

“I smoked dope from time to time in college and med school. That’s it. Now I don’t even take Tylenol.”

“Any idea how the drug got into you?”

“If I hadn’t passed out the way I did, I’d blame someone in the lab putting it in my specimens. I’m superstitious and I have a few rituals that a lot of people know about. Maybe someone put the drug in my juice at breakfast, or the doughnut I like to eat.”

“What kind is that?”

Will felt color rush to his cheeks.

“Jelly stick.”

“I’m a glazed-cruller person myself, but those Krispy Kremes are starting to win me over. Dr. Grant, the people in your hospital have a great deal of respect for you. They’ve told me you’re one of the best. Same goes for the people at the Open Hearth. I just came from speaking with Benois Beane. You’re like a god to some of them.”

“That’s nice to hear. So you believe me about the drugs?”

“At the moment I don’t know what to believe. You see, everyone I talked to says you’re a great surgeon and a terrific person but you work too hard-longer hours than anyone they’ve ever known. A couple of them don’t know how you do it. Now, all of a sudden, a serial murderer is calling you on your private line, you almost kill a man when you pass out in the operating room, and you’re found to be loaded with narcotics. Don’t you think it seems possible, even likely, that you are coming apart from all the hours you spend working?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. What are you going to do now?”

“Find a lawyer, I guess. I don’t intend to hand over my life without a goddamn good fight.”

The words were there, but they were belied by the dazed, vulnerable look in his eyes.

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said.

“You just don’t expect this kind of stuff when you sign up.”

“Maybe not, but it’s all there in the fine print that nobody ever reads.”

For a time, Patty gazed across the room at nothing in particular. How much she wanted to believe him-that he didn’t create the mysterious phone call as a means of setting up a public platform for his views on managed care; that he didn’t accidentally overdose on a powerful narcotic; that he would never even consider killing anyone. She wanted to believe him because, at the moment, she needed him. Her first major case, and she was being shoved out the door. Unless she came up with something, and quick, she would be back to chasing down shoplifters full-time.

What would Tommy Moriarity think if he knew she was contemplating joining forces with their chief suspect in a series of vicious murders?. . What were all those women thinking the moment they opened the door to let in charming, handsome, vulnerable Ted Bundy?. . How much denial was she in about her attraction to this man?

“Dr. Grant,” she suddenly heard herself saying, “I need your help.”

“At the moment I can’t believe anyone needs my help for anything,” he said.

“Your career is on the line if you can’t prove you’re innocent of taking any drugs. Well, mine is on the line unless I get a break in this managed-care case, and soon. The truth is, it’s the first one of any consequence that I’ve gotten since I joined the force. A lot of people, including your friend Brasco, think that the only reason I’m still on the case is because my father is second in command of the state police.”

“How can I help?” Will asked.

“First, I want permission to tap your phones-here, your cell, even the one in your office.”

“If you think you need to.”

“For a while you won’t have much privacy.”

“When the media gets ahold of what happened this morning, I don’t suspect I’ll have much privacy anyway. Besides, if you’ve been investigating my life you must have learned that outside the hospital, my kids, and the soup kitchen, I don’t really have one. It’s been months since my last date.”

Good!

“I’ll give you my home number and my cell. If the killer calls, day or night, I need you to contact me immediately. If you have any ideas about who could be doing this or why, I need you to call me. If you can connect anyone to this drug business, anyone at all, that’s important, too. I’ll even take any theories that might come to you.”

“I suppose I could do that.”

“One last thing. I would really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone we have this arrangement.”

“I wondered about that, given that I’m still a suspect.”

“To Brasco you are, but I’ve pretty much decided to believe you-at least for the moment.”

As Patty spoke the words, the reality of what she was doing hit.

Unprofessional, amateurish, and downright dangerous, her father would say. You don’t go into a man’s home without another officer nearby, if not right in the room with you-especially when that man is a suspect in your murder investigation. Jesus, girl, what were you thinking?

“I. . I’ve got to go,” she said, standing abruptly. “Here are forms for the wiretaps. Sign them in front of a notary and get them to me at the address on my card. I’ll let myself out.”

“Wait, you don’t have to go. Stay for just a little while. Maybe we could brainstorm.”

Somewhere in the midst of Will’s second sentence, she closed the door behind her.

Patty knew that in addition to her own vulnerability and feelings of isolation, she had just blatantly gone against policy and procedure because of the admiration and attraction that were building inside her for Will. Angry with herself and more than a little embarrassed, she hurried to the Camaro. She was unlocking her door when a photographer stepped out from between two parked cars and snapped off three quick shots.

“Hey!” a female reporter called from somewhere behind the man. “How about an interview?”

“Go screw yourself!” Patty shouted back.

The stench of burning rubber filled the car as she screeched out of Wolf Hollow Parking Lot 10.