A Caduceus is for Killing (16 page)

    "Of course you can," he said, returning to his chair. "Now, you go home and get some rest."
    Yes. That's what she'd do. Go home and sleep it off, like the whole thing had been a bad dream. The Dean was right. She'd been traumatized more than she realized by what'd happened to Milton. Sleep would take care of everything. But first she'd clear up a few things in her office, then meet Krastowitcz for dinner. She'd make some excuse to leave early, go home, and snuggle up with a good non-medical book.
         "HELLO, TRENT?" Suzanne tucked the phone under her chin and applied red polish to her toes. "I'm glad I caught you."
    "What's up?"
    "I miss you." She missed and dribbled polish down her leg.
    "Are you crazy? We just said good morning about three hours ago."
    "I know. But, I already miss being next to you."
    "Speaking of that," Trenton said with a grin she could visualize through the phone. "How about tonight?"
    "Mmmm, love to, but I promised Andrea we'd have supper and have a good old girl-talk session." She put down the polish and curled up on her bed.
    "Why? You two live together don't you?"
    "Sure, Sergeant. But, if you'll kindly remember, I've spent the last three nights with you and haven't even told Andrea what's going on."
    "So why does she need to know? Is she your mother?"
    "Don't get testy. She's been my best friend ever since we were children. She's more like a sister than a friend and I want to share my good luck with her."
    "What good luck?"
    Suzanne giggled. "Meeting you, silly."
    "You're not sharing me with anybody, sweetheart. I'm all yours."
    She tucked her knees under her chin. "Tell you what, if I can cut the evening short, I'll make it up to you. That is, if you can take it."
    "Try me. I'll show you what I can take."
    "I've already tried and I want more. Listen, Trent, if I can't get away, I'll see you tomorrow. Then I'll spend as many nights as you want."
    "I don't think there are enough nights."
    She sat up straight and leaned into the phone. "Yes, there are. You sound pretty serious. Be careful. I might just believe what you say."
    "Well, start believing."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Come over tonight and I'll show you."
    She lay down and cuddled the phone against her ear. "I'll try, okay? I'm on my way over to Jamison's to see if I can drop his class."
    "You are?"
    "Yes. Then we'll have an extra night to be together and you'd better not disappoint me."
    "Perish the thought."
    Suzanne showered, dressed, and hurried to Jamison's quarters. She'd be late, again, for work. Another trip to the bookstore. At least, that's what she told the Surgery receptionist when she'd called.
         WAITING IN THE clergy residence hall for Father Jamison, Suzanne reminisced about the last several days with Trent. She couldn't believe her good luck. Finally, closing in on thirty, she'd found love. Maybe grades weren't as important as she thought.
    "You can go in now," the receptionist said. "Down the hall. First door to your left."
    She padded along the quiet hall rehearsing her story. She had to get out of this class.
    "Hello, Suzanne." The priest nervously held out his hand. She grasped his cold, clammy appendage. Why was he always so nervous?
    "Hi, Father. I was hoping you could help. I want to cut back to only one class per semester, so I was wondering if you'd sign my drop slip. I've only got
six
hours to go until I graduate and I'd like to take it as easy as possible. Would that be okay?"
    "Do you think it's wise to drop this class? Especially since you need it to graduate?"
    "It's a summer class and I can pick it back up again this fall."
    "How long have you been going to college, Suzanne?"
    "Ten years, and I'm getting tired of it. I want to settle down and start a family. I think I just might have gotten lucky this time." She blushed. "Excuse me, Father. I've met the most wonderful guy. I think he feels the same way. I won't know for sure unless I can spend more time with him. Taking so many night courses each semester doesn't leave me much spare time."
    "Sounds like you've already made up your mind. Who is this man?"
    "Sam Trenton, Father. He's one of the officers investigating Dr. Grafton's murder. I met him through Andrea Pearson."
    "Andrea Pearson?"
    "Yeah, you know her. She was working with Dr. Grafton. Wasn't it terrible about him, the murder and all?"
    "Oh, my." His gaze skittered around the room. The phone bell interrupted their silence and Suzanne jumped.
    Father Jamison picked up the receiver. "Yes. Of course. I'll be right down." He replaced the phone gently on the receiver. "I've got to. . . there's someone to see me. I'm sorry. I've got to--give me the slip, I'll sign."
    "Thanks, Father."
    He edged her toward the door, almost urging her out. What was so important all of a sudden? She'd never been given the brush-off by any man, not even a priest. She padded back toward the smiling receptionist.
    What did she care? The guy gave her the creeps, anyway. She'd gotten what she wanted. He'd signed the drop.
    She glanced down at her watch. Now she was really late. The bookstore excuse was too lame. This time, she'd have to have a better one.
Chapter XII
    
. . . FURTHERMORE, I WILL NOT GIVE TO A WOMAN AN INSTRUMENT TO PRODUCE ABORTION.
         The clergy residence hall was large and old. The dark corridor seemed to sag as if exhausted from years of service. Before Dorlynd had annexed it, it was a Community Center. Krastowitcz liked the building. It was collegial and stately. He'd never been to college.
    It wasn't for him. He'd been too busy getting a different education, from the street. The only formal learning he'd had was the police academy twenty years before. Nowadays, even new recruits had at least a two year degree.
    So what type of priest was involved in a sordid homosexual homicide? The circumstances were uncomfortable, but he had to follow all leads. Father Jamison was one of several.
    "Excuse me." He whispered like the good parochial school grad he was. The elderly woman at the desk turned her attention to him. "I'm Sergeant Krastowitcz from the Omaha Police Division. Is Father Jamison in?"
    "Goodness sake." Her eyes widened. "Sergeant? Police? Oh, my. I'll call him, right away. Oh, my. Please have a seat, sir."
    "Sergeant."
    "Oh, my."
    He wandered down the hallway and settled in one of the several large leather and wood chairs. There seemed to be a preponderance of leather at Dorlynd. Universities always seemed to have an abundance of oversized leather chairs standing watch everywhere. Small, folding wooden chairs rested beside each desk in his homicide office, looking pathetic in comparison. He glanced around, his gaze resting on several cracked oil paintings depicting Dorlynd's founding fathers in various poses. He wondered what pose they'd have put Grafton in! Suspended from long thin wires attached to the ceiling, the sentinels hung watching and waiting in stoic silence. What the hell! It was almost as if they were waiting for him to solve the case.
    Suzanne hurried by.
    He stood and she skidded to a halt. "Hey, Gary. What're you doing here?"
    "I came to see Father Jamison. How are you?"
    "Fine, thanks. I just got through with him. You must be the important appointment he had." She laughed. "No wonder he was so nervous. Probably thinks if a cop wants to see him he's a suspect."
    "A priest as a suspect? You'd better say another Hail Mary for even thinking of it." She laughed again. "I just need some background information. He's a psychologist, isn't he?"
    "Sure. Hasn't helped me, though. I'm dropping his class."
    "You are? How come?" Krastowitcz shifted his weight from foot to foot.
    "So I can spend more time with your sexy friend. Sometime soon, we've got to sit down so you can tell me all about that hunk. Okay?"
    He didn't want to stand here discussing his best friend's sex life. The bubbling woman bewildered him. "Sure, but--"
    A smallish dark-eyed man entered the room and extended his hand. "Sergeant Krastowitcz? I'm Father Jamison. Please, follow me."
    Jamison and Suzanne exchanged glances. She smiled, shifted her gaze to Krastowitcz, and rolled her eyes.
    "Got to run," she said. "I'm supposed to be at the bookstore. See you later, Gary."
    "Sure, Suzanne." Krastowitcz watched Jamison watch Suzanne. The priest's stare was a tad too intense. Was something there? What? He'd find out.
    He followed Father Jamison down the corridor into his office and sat down.
    "What can I do for you, officer?"
    Krastowitcz scratched his ear. "Well, Father, this is awkward but I need to ask you a few questions regarding. . . That is, I'm investigating the death of Dr. Grafton. I was told you two were friends."
    "Dr. Grafton? It's so sad. Such a good man with such worth-while work, with such sick, sick patients." The priest clasped his shaking hands together as if in prayer. "He did so much for the poor and afflicted."
    "Yes, Father, and I'm particularly interested in his AIDS work. You worked closely with his patients?"
    "Why, yes, Sergeant. I counsel many dying patients and ad-minister the last rights when necessary. W-why are you interested in AIDS patients?"
    Why did Jamison stumble over his words? This guy knew more than he'd let on. Had Grafton told him something in confession? Something about serial murders? The ones he'd committed? "We've reason to suspect that Grafton was involved in the gay community."
    "Everyone on that service is involved with the gay community. You don't understand, Sergeant."
    "No.
You
don't understand, Father." Krastowitcz leaned forward and loosened his collar. This was harder than he'd thought. Too many years of Catholic upbringing. "Let's just say that his involvement was more intimate and brutal than anyone suspected." Krastowitcz eyed Jamison carefully.
    Jamison's hand twitched. "What does that have to do with me?"
    "Do you know anyone who might have reason to kill him? I mean, someone who knew Grafton socially."
    "What," the priest said, wiping his forehead with his hand-kerchief, "possibly gave you that impression?"
    Krastowitcz held up the picture of Milton and Jamison in an embrace. "This."
    The good father slumped his shoulders and collapsed into his chair. "That doesn't mean a thing, Sergeant. Milton was merely a friend. That's all." Krastowitcz got up to leave. "Is there anything else?"
    "Not now, Father. I'll call you if I need you. Oh, by the way, you were at Grafton's funeral this morning, weren't you?"
    "I--ah-- went to pay my respects. Is there anything wrong with that? I mean, that's not a crime these days. Or is it?"
    "No, Father. Just asking."
    
Bingo
. The priest was definitely hiding something. Guilt tweaked Krastowitcz for his interrogation. Must be his Catholic upbringing. All those years of catechism and nuns. Priests were sacred--you stood when they entered the room
. Yes, Father. No, Father. Have a nice day, Father. May I have your blessing, Father?
It still left a bad taste in his mouth. There was some-thing about Jamison that didn't ring true. Good or bad, he'd still have to check the priest further. The thought almost pleased him--odd reaction for a good Catholic boy.
         ANDREA GLANCED at her watch. Her meeting with Hardwyn had lasted only twenty minutes. Now she was officially a free agent, well, for a few days, anyway. Since she was already at the medical school, it was a perfect time to check the files in the laboratory. Especially since Peter was at the cemetery.
    Andrea entered the elevator and pushed Sub 7. It sped downward and from the gravitational pull, her heart felt like a lead weight in her chest. This particular elevator always made her wonder. What if the cables broke and the elevator fell? An old myth said if she jumped up and down while in descent, the impact would be lessened and even save the passenger's life. The image of her jumping up and down as the elevator plummeted downward made her laugh and assuaged her fear.
    The door opened and she stepped hesitantly into the deserted, green concrete hallway. She walked quickly toward the lab, nervously fumbling with the security card-key. She inserted it in the slot and waited for the latch release. Nothing happened. She reinserted it, right side up. After some jiggling, the tumblers turned and she opened the door. That's what she got for never using her card key. When she needed it, she stumbled. She edged her fingers along the rough wall, searching for the light switch and flicked it up. Light flooded the lab. On the inside wall, were the three, locked file cabinets.
    She approached them, Andrea pulled out the letter she'd found under Milton's blotter. The key was still taped to it. She examined it closely, then the file-locks.
    It opened files, all right.
    She placed the key in the first cabinet's lock and twisted. Nothing happened. The second cabinet, however, popped open with ease. Just like Peter had said, it was jammed with reprints and miscellaneous papers. She went through manila folder after manila folder, scratch note after scratch note. Frustration made her teeth ache. Finally, she spotted a file marked NIH Grant. Without studying it further, she pulled it out and jammed it into her purse.
    She turned back to extend the search. The lab door knob turned. She didn't exactly see it move, but the sensation over-whelmed her.
    Quickly, she shut the cabinet, relocked it and wedged the key down into the crack between the cabinets. The door flew open.
    "You, bitch! What're you doing?" Peter Mueller slammed the door against the wall, launching tiny missiles of flying concrete shrapnel.
    "Peter. . . I--"
    "Can't you leave his things alone? Haven't you had enough, going through his apartment?"
    "How did you--?"
    "Now you're playing amateur detective with that cop."
    How did he know she'd been with Krastowitcz at Milton's apartment? Was he the one who'd followed her in the Old Market? Andrea took a deep breath. If he was the killer, she'd better be careful.
    "I've got as much right as you to be here. Milton's research was important to me, too."
    "Important for what it could get you, you mean. Like a date with that detective--"
    "I hardly think--"
    "Shut up."
    Andrea inched away. "You're being ridiculous. I'm trying to help the investigation. Do you want the killer to go free?"