A Caduceus is for Killing (7 page)

    "I sure hope this won't take too long. I've got patients to see," she said, the frost in her voice froze the room.
    "It shouldn't," he said, equally cold, turning the knob.
    "You won't have to look in the bathroom, it's been cleaned up. I want you to check out this room and go through the stuff on his desk. Maybe there's a clue there somewhere. Something missing only you might know about."
    "All right," she said. "I don't know if I'll be much help, but I'm willing to try."
    Krastowitcz opened the door. Andrea took a deep breath and entered slowly. The curtains had been drawn and the filtered sunlight glistened on each microscopic dust particle giving the room a smoky appearance. There was still a strong odor of decomposition. Bile rose thickly in the back of her throat. She was a physician. Physicians did not get sick from smells. She circled the room looking for anything that seemed odd or out of place.
    "Do you see anything?"
    "I don't know. I'm not the greatest observer," she said, be-ginning to thaw. "I do better looking under a microscope. I wish I'd paid more attention to this office, but it was always such a clutter."
    "Keep looking. Maybe there's something."
    Again, as hard as she tried, she didn't see one thing out of place. Grafton's desk was still the mess it had always been. There had been something wrong in this room, but what? Where? Her head started to ache again.
    "Do you mind if I sit down at the desk, Gary? I won't disturb anything."
    "Be my guest. I'd like you to go through that stuff, anyway. Feel free to start at the top and work down. This'll probably take some time. While you get started, I'm going to make a call and order some food. It's past lunch time. Would you like a sandwich or something?
    The thought of eating in that room made her gag.
    "I, ah, uh, n-no thanks. I'm not very hungry."
    While Krastowitcz made his call, Andrea rummaged through the papers. There were requests for letters of recommendation--never answered. Twenty or more half-read medical journals spread over the desk. His NIH quarterly grant review, for a twenty-five million dollar research grant, half-finished with a note to call the Dean in the margin. Many small notes from Andrea to Grafton were strewn over the desk and as she picked up several of them, she remembered something. The recent urgent calls from Paris. The document in French.
    She knew it all had something to do with his research, but what? She was only the chief resident. In charge of all the administrative bullshit that went along with the residency program: rotation schedules, call schedules, lecture series, grand rounds, student rounds; and all this bullshit kept her busy. So busy she didn't have time to notice what Grafton did with his research. Dean Hardwyn was listed as the co-investigator on the grant, maybe he'd know? She'd ask him.
    At the bottom of the pile was a wrinkled clipping from an Ann Lander's column.
    "What's this?" Gary asked.
     MIDWEST MISANTHROPE HOPES AIDS GOES UN-CHECKED.
    "Milton collected these types of letters and articles. He loved hate mail. He used to always say `If only they knew--I'm saving mankind!' He would laugh and tell me he was going to be the one to find the cure for AIDS, because he was very close."
    Krastowitcz picked up a handful of papers and thumbed through them.
    "There are hundreds of them here. Was he?"
    "What?"
    "Close to finding a cure for AIDS, or whatever it was he was doing?"
    She pulled a couple of letters from him and studied them. "I don't know. Sometimes Milton could be a little on the eccentric side."
    "Look at this one," Gary chuckled. "It says AIDS is the end of the world; a cure for overpopulation. God's revenge for the sinful ways of the world. Sounds plausible to me. They ought to take them all out to a deserted island and then strafe it."
    She balled the letter into a wad and tossed it into the trash. "Really, Sergeant. That's ludicrous. These types of statements are brought on by hysteria and ignorance. If it weren't so pathetic, it would be hysterical--in the funny sense of course. Milton thought all of this was funny."
    "Doesn't sound like a guy someone would want to murder," he said, deliberately ignoring the remark about ignorance.
    "One problem. Although he thought of himself as witty, he was often misunderstood. Even I was shocked by some of the things he said, and I worked with him closely. His insensitive manner often caused his credibility to suffer. But he was a typical scientist. If he wanted something badly enough, he'd drive people nuts until he got it. When he wasn't being witty, he was ruthless."
    "How's that?"
    "He followed a strict code of medical ethics and if that code was broken, he showed no mercy. It didn't matter if it was a student, resident, or another faculty member. To him, everything was either black or white; there was no in between. Many people disliked him fiercely."
    "That's interesting. All we have to do is find someone who broke his code of ethics."
    "Then almost everyone at Dorlynd Medical Center will be suspect. You can't live a totally blameless life. We're human beings. That's what Milton couldn't understand. Everyone makes mistakes."
    "Including you?"
    "Yes, Gary, especially me."
    "Do you want to tell me about it?"
    "No. I don't. It's not relevant to this investigation and I don't wish to discuss my mistakes." The air turned cold and crisp around them.
    "Tell me more about Grafton."
    "He hated the direction medicine was going. He constantly complained that physicians were turning into a bunch of businessmen. Always trying to make a fast buck--not caring for humanity. He talked about greed--greed of physicians, the insurance companies, and also the patients. Everyone wanted something for nothing. Just last week, he placed a resident, Tom McNaughton, on suspension for drug use."
    "He did?"
    "There wasn't any actual proof. Milton suspected cocaine use, so he suspended him. McNaughton became verbally abusive and threatened to sue Milton for slander, or worse."
    "Sounds like a strong suspect."
    "Perhaps, I don't know. It was no secret that McNaughton hated Milton. But to commit murder? No. McNaughton wasn't like that."
    "You seem pretty sure."
    "We were friends."
    "Were?"
    "Yes."
    As Andrea told all of this to Sergeant Krastowitcz, she noticed how large he was. It wasn't his height. It was everything about him. Large. Something about it excited her, made her feel small; feminine. She hadn't felt feminine in years.
    She wondered if he was a typical tough guy cop; dictatorial, and arbitrary toward women. Was this one different? She was unable to tell. Policemen as a class were inclined to be vain and somewhat egotistical; just like physicians. However, they never lacked courage and under other circumstances, he might be worth getting to know better. But as usual, her timing was off. She might even be a suspect.
God almighty
. What if she was a suspect?
Shit
.
    Andrea looked back at the pile of papers on the desk. Just about every junior medical student who failed the rotation and had to retake the entire three months of medicine hated Milton. He was the brunt of the jokes at the graduating seniors awards banquet each May. Residents who got in trouble hated him. Most of the faculty members were jealous of his large multi-million dollar federal grants and even the other members of his section hated him because he made them teach the residents along with doing their full share of research work.
    "You can't keep a teaching faculty appointment in this department unless you teach." That was his motto. He was a hard worker and he expected the same from his faculty. Academic medicine was not the most demanding profession for physicians. Residents were there to cover night-call and admissions. Only a few faculty members really liked research and those who did were fanatical about it and didn't like to teach. Milton Grafton demanded that they do both and he was hated for it. How could Andrea explain university politics to Gary?
    As her thoughts wandered, the office receptionist poked her head around the corner. Looking up, Andrea jumped and dropped the handful of papers. They scattered over the floor.
    "Oh, Dr. Pearson, I'm sorry. Did I startle you? Dr. Hardwyn is on the phone. He wants to talk to you. Shall I put him through?"
    "Of course, Sharon, thanks." She hadn't spoken with Dean Hardwyn since their meeting when he told her about the letter from Milton. Her trembling hand reached for the phone. Hesitantly, she placed the receiver to her ear.
    "Hello, Dr. Hardwyn?"
    "Andrea, glad I caught you. Nasty happenings over there. Are you all right?"
    "Why, yes."
    "I called the police station to get some information and they said that a Sergeant Krastowitcz is in charge of the investigation."
    "Yes, he is."
    "Would you know his whereabouts? Have you talked to him?"
    "Why, uh, yes. He's here."
    "May I talk to him?"
    "Certainly," she handed the phone to Krastowitcz and watched as he spoke with the Dean. She wondered if she would be able to sit down and talk to Hardwyn about that letter some-time in the near future. She had to find out about her faculty appointment. Now that Milton was gone, she was sure Hardwyn would push it through for her.
    "Not exactly," Krastowitcz said. "I'm working my way toward your office, today. You were one of Grafton's co-investigators weren't you?"
    Andrea wondered what the Dean would have to say about Milton. She admired Krastowitcz's smooth interrogative manner on the phone. He was cool and precise.
    "Maybe you can fill me in on just what direction his research was going. Can I come by this afternoon? Say around two-thirty? Good. I'll see you then." Krastowitcz hung up and turned toward Andrea.
    "I need to know some more about Grafton's background, but I've got to meet with your Dean. There just isn't enough time. Would you be willing to meet with me again this evening?"
    "I, a--"
    "Tell you what, we could grab a bite to eat. I know this great little place."
    "Dinner? What time?" Her stomached ached as though she hadn't eaten for days. What did she have to lose?
    "It's two-o'clock now, and I've got to get over to Hardwyn's office. How does seven sound?"
    "I--It should be okay."
    "Can I pick you up at your place?"
    "My place? I guess so. You'll need the address."
    "No. I've got it in my report. Remember?"
    "Yes. I remember." Her spirits sank. Of course, this wasn't a date. It was an investigation.
    "We're finished in here, for now. Think about the room some more and see if you notice anything missing. Especially from the walls. We can come back to it at a later time."
    "The walls? Sure. Fine. I'll just check the papers on his desk and go straight home."
    That was easy, Krastowitcz thought later. Why did he feel like he had just made a conquest? She wasn't exactly melting. In fact, she'd seemed to actually dislike him until they were interrupted by the Dean.
    It wasn't a date. They were just going to dinner to finish the discussion on Grafton. Well, maybe he would turn the investigation around to a little personal interrogation?
    Still, she hadn't seemed overly impressed with him. Besides, he was leery about any type of relationship, especially with someone involved in a case. And he knew how much cases took away from a personal life. What personal life? He had none--never had. And yet, there was something about this woman. It was a nice thought while it lasted, but for now the only thing he should concentrate on was murder, not women.
    That's what he'd do, forget it for now. After all, it was no crime to enjoy a simple dinner with a handsome woman, was it?
Chapter VI
    
. . . AND TO TEACH THEM THIS ART IF THEY SHALL WISH TO LEARN, WITHOUT FEE OR STIPULATION. . . .
         With one-way and closed streets, it took Krastowitcz five minutes to drive from the hospital to the medical school. One of three in Nebraska, Dorlynd was situated on the banks of the Missouri River. It shimmered in the afternoon air while thin, spiraling fingers of mist reached upward, caressing the hazy Nebraska sky like a lover just awakening from an afternoon's embrace. The blue void responded by sucking the moisture upward until river and sky coupled as one.
    The campus was completely surrounded by gnarled maple trees that hovered over the benches and study nooks scattered around the stylish buildings. One of the newer buildings at Dorlynd, the medical school was a round bubble-like structure that looked like a fat beetle squatting next to the older, taller buildings. It was a prototype, built in 1978 from research funds. Instead of going up, the building went down, deep into Nebraska soil. Inspired by the Strategic Air Command, there were fifteen stories underground.
    Krastowitcz hoped the Dean's office wasn't on the bottom. Not that he was claustrophobic, he just didn't like being shut in, especially so far underground. A remnant of his time spent in Nam.
    He pulled the Charger into a spot right in front. Did Graf-ton's murder have anything to do with all the vacant parking stalls? Or did all doctors go home after two-thirty in the after-noon? Academics in the medical profession certainly didn't appear to work very hard. Krastowitcz entered and noticed the foyer lined in dark wood of some type. Why did universities think everything had to be dark? He shook his head, spotted a large sign telling him the Dean's office was on the ground floor ahead to his left. He exhaled in relief.
    What if this guy was the typical, academic snob, over- educated and lacking the patience to present himself pleasantly to the common man?
    Talking down to him.
    God, he hated that. These pencil-pushers--hell, in general--didn't most of the world think the police were beneath them? On the other hand, contacts with the criminal element tended to make officers suspicious of human nature and socially repulsive.
    Krastowitcz was proud to be a police officer. He'd focused his entire attention on the derelictions of mankind, and was, by nature, suspicious of everyone.
    He flashed his badge to the anxious secretary. "I'm Sergeant Krastowitcz. I've got a two-thirty appointment with Dr. Hardwyn."
    "Yes. Right this way, sir." She opened a heavily carved door and allowed him to pass.
    At least some people in this town gave him respect. Krastowitcz flashed his friendliest smile. "Thanks, Miss."