Devil's Waltz Part 17

10.

Wednesday's paper turned the a.s.sault into a homicide.

The victim, robbed and beaten to death, had indeed been a doctor. A name I didn't recognize: Laurence Ashmore. Forty-five years old, on the staff at Western Peds for just a year. He'd been struck from behind by the a.s.sailant and robbed of his wallet, keys, and the magnetized card key that admitted his car to the doctors' lot. An unnamed hospital spokesperson emphasized that all parking-gate entry codes had been changed but admitted that entry on foot would continue to be as easy as climbing a flight of stairs.

a.s.sailant unknown, no leads.

I put the paper down and looked through my desk drawers until I found a hospital faculty photo roster. But it was five years old, predating Ashmore's arrival.

Shortly after eight I was back at the hospital, finding the doctors' lot sealed with a metal accordion gate and cars stack-parked in the circular drive fronting the main entrance. An ALL FULL sign was posted at the mouth of the driveway, and a security guard handed me a mimeographed sheet outlining the procedure for obtaining a new card key.

"Where do I park in the meantime?"

He pointed across the street, to the rutted outdoor lots used by nurses and orderlies. I backed up, circled the block, and ended up queuing for a quarter hour. It took another ten minutes to find a s.p.a.ce. Jaywalking across the boulevard, I sprinted to the front door. Two guards instead of one in the lobby, but there was no other hint that a life had been snuffed out a couple of hundred feet away. I knew death was no stranger to this place but I'd have thought murder rated a stronger reaction. Then I looked at the faces of the people coming and going and waiting. Nothing like worry and grief to narrow one's perspective.

I headed for the rear stairway and noticed an up-to-date roster just past the Information desk. Laurence Ashmore's picture was on the top left. Specialty in Toxicology.

If the portrait was recent, he'd been a young-looking forty-five. Thin, serious face. Dark, unruly hair, hyphen mouth, horn-rimmed eyegla.s.ses. Woody Allen with dyspepsia. Not the type to pose much of a challenge for a mugger. I wondered why it had been necessary to kill him for his wallet, then realized what an idiotic question that was.

As I prepared to ride up to Five, sounds from the far end of the hospital caught my attention. Lots of white coats. A squadron of people moving across my line of sight, rushing toward the patient-transport elevator.

Wheeling a child on a gurney, one orderly pushing, another holding an I.V. bottle and keeping pace.

A woman I recognized as Stephanie. Then two people in civvies. Chip and Cindy.

I went after them and caught up just as they entered the lift. Barely squeezing in, I edged my way next to Stephanie.

She acknowledged me with a twitch of her mouth. Cindy was holding one of Ca.s.sie's hands. She and Chip both looked defeated and neither of them glanced up.

We rode up in silence. As we got off the elevator Chip held out his hand and I grasped it for a second.

The orderlies wheeled Ca.s.sie through the ward and through the teak doors. Within moments her inert form had been lowered to the bed, the I.V. hooked up to a drip monitor, and the side rails raised.

Ca.s.sie's chart was on the gurney. Stephanie picked it up and said, "Thanks, guys." The orderlies left.

Cindy and Chip hovered near the bed. The room lights were off and slivers of gray morning peeked through the split of drawn drapes.

Ca.s.sie's face was swollen, yet it appeared drained-an inflated husk. Cindy took her hand once more. Chip shook his head and wrapped his arm around his wife's waist.

Stephanie said, "Dr. Bogner will be by again and so should that Swedish doctor."

Faint nods.

Stephanie c.o.c.ked her head. The two of us stepped out into the hall.

"Another seizure?" I said.

"Four A.M. We've been in the E.R. since then, working her over."

"How's she doing?"

"Stabilized. Lethargic. Bogner's doing all of his diagnostic tricks but he's not coming up with much."

"Was she in any danger?"

"No mortal danger, but you know the kind of damage repet.i.tive seizures can do. And if it's an escalating pattern, we can probably expect lots more." She rubbed her eyes.

I said, "Who's the Swedish doctor?"

"Neuroradiologist named Torgeson, published quite a bit on childhood epilepsy. He's giving a lecture over at the medical school. I thought, why not?"

We walked to the desk. A young dark-haired nurse was there now. Stephanie wrote in the chart and told her, "Call me immediately if there are any changes."

"Yes, Doctor."

Stephanie and I walked down the hall a bit.

"Where's Vicki?" I said.

"Home sleeping. I hope. She went off shift at seven, but was down in the E.R. until seven-thirty or so, holding Cindy's hand. She wanted to stay and do another shift, but I insisted she leave-she looked totally wiped out."

"Did she see the seizure?"

Stephanie nodded. "So did the unit clerk. Cindy pressed the call b.u.t.ton, then ran out of the room, crying for help."

"When did Chip show up?"

"Soon as we had Ca.s.sie stabilized, Cindy called him at home and he came right over. I guess it must have been around four-thirty."

"Some night," I said.

"Well, at least we've got outside corroboration of the seizures. Kid's definitely grand mal."

"So now everyone knows Cindy's not nuts."

"What do you mean?"

"Yesterday she talked to me about people thinking she was crazy."

"She actually said that?"

"Sure did. The context was her being the only one who saw Ca.s.sie get sick, the way Ca.s.sie would recover as soon as she got to the hospital. As if her credibility was suspect. It could have been frustration, but maybe she knows she's under suspicion and was bringing it up to test my reaction. Or just to play games."

"How did you react?"

"Calm and rea.s.suring, I hope."

"Hmm," she said, frowning. "One day she's worrying about her credibility; then all of a sudden we've got something organic to work with?"

"The timing is awfully cute," I said. "Who else besides Cindy was with Ca.s.sie last night?"

"No one. Not constantly. You think she slipped her something?"

"Or pinched her nose. Or squeezed her neck-carotid sinus pressure. Both came up when I was scanning the Munchausen literature and I'm sure there are a few more tricks that haven't been doc.u.mented yet."

"Tricks a respiratory tech might know . . . d.a.m.n. So how in blazes do you detect something like that?"

She pulled her stethoscope from around her neck. Looped it around one hand and unwrapped it. Facing the wall, she pressed her forehead to it and closed her eyes.

"Are you going to put her on anything?" I said. "Dilantin or phen.o.barb?"

"I can't. Because if she doesn't have a bona fide disorder, meds can do more harm than good."

"Won't they suspect something if you don't medicate her?"

"Maybe . . . I'll just tell them the truth. The EEG tracings are inconclusive and I want to find the exact cause for the seizures before I dose her up. Bogner'll back me up on that-he's mad because he can't figure it out."

The teak doors swung open and George Plumb shot through, jaw leading, white coat flapping. He held the door for a man in his late sixties wearing a navy-blue pin-stripe suit. The man was much shorter than Plumb-five six or seven-stocky and bald, with a rapid, bow-legged walk and a malleable-looking face that appeared to have taken plenty of direct hits: broken nose, off-center chin, grizzled eyebrows, small eyes set in a sunburst pucker of wrinkles. He wore steel-rimmed eyegla.s.ses, a white shirt with a spread collar, and a powder-blue silk tie fastened in a wide Windsor. His wingtips gleamed.

The two of them came straight to us. The short man looked busy even when standing still.

"Dr. Eves," said Plumb. "And Dr. . . . Delaware, was it?"

I nodded.

The short man seemed to be opting out of the introductions. He was looking around the ward-that same measuring appraisal Plumb had conducted two days ago.

Plumb said, "How's our little girl doing, Dr. Eves?"

"Resting," said Stephanie, focusing on the short man. "Good morning, Mr. Jones."

Quick turn of the bald head. The short man looked at her, then at me. Intense focus. As if he were a tailor and I were a bolt of cloth.

"What exactly happened?" he said in a gravelly voice.

Stephanie said, "Ca.s.sie experienced an epileptic seizure early this morning."

"d.a.m.n." The short man punched one hand with the other. "And still no idea what's causing it?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid. Last time she was admitted we ran every relevant test, but we're running them again and Dr. Bogner's coming over. There's also a visiting professor from Sweden who's arriving any minute. Childhood epilepsy's his specialty. Though when I spoke with him on the phone he felt we'd done everything right."

"d.a.m.n." The puckered eyes turned on me. A hand shot out. "Chuck Jones."

"Alex Delaware."

We shook hard and fast. His palm felt like a rasp blade. Everything about him seemed to run on fast-forward.

Plumb said, "Dr. Delaware is a psychologist, Chuck."

Jones blinked and stared at me.

"Dr. Delaware's been working with Ca.s.sie," said Stephanie, "to help her with her fear of needles."

Jones made a noncommittal sound, then said, "Well, let me know what goes on. Let's get to the bottom of this d.a.m.ned folderol."

He walked toward Ca.s.sie's room. Plumb followed like a puppy.

When they were inside I said, "Folderol?"

"How'd you like to have him for a grandpa?"

"He must love Chip's earring."

"One thing he doesn't love is shrinks. After Psychiatry was abolished a bunch of us went to him, trying to get some sort of mental health services restored. We might as well have asked him for an interest-free loan. Plumb was setting you up just now, when he told Jones what you do."

"The old corporate p.i.s.sing game? Why?"

"Who knows? I'm just telling you so you'll keep your guard up. These people play a different game."

"Duly noted," I said.

She looked at her watch. "Time for clinic."

We left Chappy and headed for the elevator.

She said, "So what are we going to do, Alex?"

I considered telling her what I'd put Milo up to. Decided to keep her out of it. "From my reading, the only thing that seems to work is either catching someone in the act or having a direct confrontation that gets them to confess."

"Confrontation? As in coming out and accusing her?"

I nodded.

"I can't exactly do that at this point, can I?" she said. "Now that she's got witnesses to a bona fide seizure and I'm bringing in specialists. Who knows, maybe I'm totally off-base and there really is some kind of epilepsy, I don't know. . . . I received a letter from Rita this morning. Express mail from New York-she's touring the art galleries. 'How are things progressing on the case?' Am I 'making any headway' in my 'diagnosis?' I got the feeling someone went around me and called her."

"Plumb?"

"Uh-huh. Remember that meeting he wanted? We had it yesterday and it turned out to be all sweetness and light. Him telling me how much he appreciates my commitment to the inst.i.tution. Letting me know the financial situation is lousy and going to get lousier but implying that if I don't make waves, I can have a better job."

"Rita's."

"He didn't come out and say it but that was the message. It would be just like him to then go and call her, set her against me. . . . Anyway, none of that's important. What do I do about Ca.s.sie?"