A Caduceus is for Killing (8 page)

    Once in the Dean's office, he took an instant dislike to Hardwyn, a tall, slender man with the detested condescending attitude. To be civil to this slime-bag was, to Krastowitcz, an undeniable act of courageous public relations. The Dean's slim hand was lost in Krastowticz's large paw, and he squelched an almost uncontrollable urge to squeeze the cold, clammy appendage as hard as he could. Maybe that would get some emotion out of the academic.
    Yet, everyone he'd interviewed talked favorably of Hardwyn. In fact, he was thought to be somewhat of a miracle worker when it came to getting necessary equipment, funds, or anything else needed to run the university.
    "If you want anything at all, no matter what it is, just ask Hardwyn," one young researcher had told him. Pearson thought he walked on water, so he must have a few good points. Krastowitcz chalked his negative response up to preconditioned prejudice, which was ludicrous of course. He wasn't prejudiced. He hated everyone equally.
    "How do you do, Sergeant?" Hardwyn said smoothly. "Please, sit down. What can I do for you?"
    "Are you aware of any of the details regarding Milton Graf-ton's death, Doctor?"
    "Not precisely, but I've had a full phone report from Captain Straley."
    Krastowitcz bet he had. What a name dropper.
    "Right now, I'm trying to talk to everyone who knew or had contact with him in the last forty-eight hours."
    "Of course."
    "I'm willing to consider anything. Even a slight acquaintance. I understand you knew him during his training and were instrumental in his coming to Dorlynd. Can you provide me with a list of people he was closely associated with?"
    "Let's see." Hardwyn leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his coarse gray hair. "That may take me some time. Are you looking for those who had a grudge against him?"
    "Well, I--"
     "The list is long. It would take me less time to tell you about those who liked him."
    "Is that so?" Krastowitcz leaned forward. "Go ahead, Dr. Hardwyn, take all the time you need, I'm all ears."
    "Dr. McNaughton, Tom? Yes, Tom McNaughton. He was suspended last week for cocaine usage."
    "How did
you
know that?"
    "Dr. Grafton informed me of his actions prior to the suspension. As Dean, I'm told of all dealings involving medical education for the faculty. I'm also apprised of everything that goes on at the Medical Center, Sergeant. . . everything."
    Krastowitcz narrowed his eyes at the overbearing egotist. "Amazing," he said, meaning exactly the opposite. "So, who killed him?"
    Hardwyn seemed to ignore the remark and droned on.
    "There were numerous people who hated Milton Grafton. From students to disgruntled residents. Several faculty members, also, because he either blocked their promotions or cut their salaries. I can't think of anyone else."
    "Try. Even the slightest disagreement."
    Hardwyn sat for a moment and glared down at his hands.
    "I don't know about this. It was just a misunderstanding."
    "What?"
    "Well," Hardwyn fumbled at his desk and folded his hands together. "There was a problem with Dr. Pearson's faculty appointment. In his letter of recommendation, Dr. Grafton suggested it would be in her best interests if she had another year of research fellowship training at another institution."
    "What's that mean?"
    "Basically, Sergeant, Grafton blocked the faculty appointment of his chief resident, Dr. Pearson. I believe you were talking to her earlier."
    "Why?"
    "After a year of working with her, he felt she was too immature for advancement. I don't know why. She doesn't appear to be that way. But you couldn't figure Milton. He had his own reasons for everything."
    "Go on."
    "Well, she became quite upset--verbally abusive. Threatening."
    The urge for a cigarette nagged at him. How could he be so wrong about her? His instincts hadn't let him down before. He'd run a record check on her for sure, now. "What kind of threats?"
    "Not the kind you're thinking of," Hardwyn rushed to say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply--"
    "What kind of threats?" Was he in on it, too?
    "She threatened litigation."
    "Anything in writing?"
    "Not exactly. Milton had recommended it to me confidentially and, of course, I took him at his word."
    "Sure," Krastowitcz yawned and looked at his watch, four o'clock. He had to get out of here. This guy talked in circles.
    "And then there's Peter Mueller, Milton's lab assistant. He's impossible, can't get along with anyone--but Milton always protected him."
    "From what?"
    "From being fired. I would have done it, myself, many times, if it hadn't been for Milton."
    "What about Grafton's background. I understand you were classmates together?"
    "I'd just started at Case Western Reserve--"
    "Where's that?"
    "Ohio. I was doing surgical cancer research when I became involved in the medical and surgical aspects of autoimmune deficiency long before AIDS had been discovered."
    "What does that have to do with Grafton?"
    "That's how we met. Milton Grafton, the young hot-shot, was my fellow and subsequently became a close friend. Milton was the star, though, the flashy one."
    "What do you mean, flashy?"
    "He was a natural born grant writer. He managed to write grants and papers that were almost never turned down. It was as if he had an infallibility. He just couldn't fail."
    "He did this time."
    Hardwyn covered his eyes with his hands. "Oh, God."
    "Can you continue?"
    This was the first sign of emotion he'd seen from the prick. Was he human after all? Maybe Hardwyn really wasn't the bad guy he'd thought. His instincts were all mixed up, today. For some reason he'd read the guy wrong. Still. . . the hairs on the back of his neck were almost never wrong. His own personal crime detector.
    "This is hard, Sergeant. When you've known someone as long as I've known Milton, you just don't envision this type of ending."
    "Go on."
    "Let's see. . .Milton began writing small state grants. Then graduated to clinical trials financed by wealthy drug companies. By the time I recruited him to Dorlynd, Milton brought millions of dollars with him. NIH money specifically designated for AIDS research. When you add the twenty-five percent overhead fees the university gets on top of his grant funds, Dorlynd became many millions of dollars richer the minute he got here."
    "How did you convince him to come to Omaha?"
    "That was hard. But, of course, Milton didn't get along with anyone at Case Western, either. So, after months of wearing him down, he got into a nasty do with a student there and decided to take me up on my offer."
    "What kind of
nasty do
?"
    "The usual. The same thing he got into here. If a student doesn't like the grade a professor gives him, he'll move heaven and earth to get that grade changed. Milton wouldn't change a grade for anyone, not even his own mother."
    "Sounds like a swell guy."
    "Don't get me wrong, Sergeant. Milton had his faults; but he was a brilliant scientist. One of the brightest stars working on the AIDS problem. I don't know who will carry on his work."
    Krastowitcz's stomach burned. Too much coffee mixed with unpleasant people made for an upset belly. He needed some Maalox or Rolaids. He needed to get out of here.
    "That about does it. Except for one thing--"
    "What's that, Sergeant?"
    "Were you aware of any homosexual involvement by Dr. Grafton?"
    "What?" Hardwyn shot out of his chair. "Certainly not. Why do you ask?"
    "From certain mutilations, our medical examiner has suggested there might be a possible connection to some sort of homosexual involvement. You seemed to have known him the longest and yet you knew of nothing?"
    "I-I was a colleague, er, friend, not intimately associated with--Frankly, Sergeant, I'm shocked."
    Krastowitcz stared at him. Why would a physician be so shocked? Especially an AIDS researcher. There was more to this guy and he'd find out what. He stood and turned toward the door. "Thank you, Dr. Hardwyn. It was just a thought. Make up that list of contacts for me and I'll be back tomorrow to pick it up." He opened the door and strode through. "You've been very cooperative."
    "I hope I've managed to help some." Hardwyn moved toward him extending his hand, again. "It's been such a shock to everyone."
    
Shock my ass
. There was more to this guy than Krastowitcz cared to know. All he'd wanted to do was clear away some of his paperwork--this case would bury him for sure.
         SUZANNE BURST into Andrea's office. "Andy, I'm glad you're still here." She gulped a breath, and pointed toward Grafton's door. "O-o-o-h, it's creepy. How can you stay where the murder happened?"
    Andrea's shoulders sagged. She didn't need Suzanne's theatrics right now. "How was last night?"
    "I'm late for psychology class, but I just had to tell you. I'm so happy."
    "About what?"
    "Trent, silly. We're born soulmates."
    The woman was hopeless. What was this? Another one of her true loves? Andrea couldn't bear to hear about her escapades, again. "God, Suzanne."
    "No, really. Last night was a success and there's going to be a repeat performance tonight."
    "You didn't."
    "Not yet. It was all I could do to control myself at The Tap. I had the strongest urge to jump that hard body. I'm sure something else is hard, also."
    Andrea slammed her palm down on the desk. "Suzanne."
    "Lighten up, Andy. It's what you need. I'd pay money to see someone jump you."
    No, she'd not let Suzanne make a fool out of herself. Somehow she'd stop her. Andrea crossed over and wrapped her arms around her friend. "You know, I hate to sound like your mother--"
    "Then don't." Suzanne pushed her arms away.
    "Someday, you're going to end up in trouble."
    "Yeah? Well, those days are over. I've found my man. Difficult as it was, I played it cool. I didn't want to appear too easy."
    What made her so angry? Was she jealous or did she really care about Suzanne? She picked up her mail and tried to calm herself. "Too easy? That's a laugh. Why don't you wear neon signs."
    "You're just jealous, cause he wasn't interested in you."
    Was Suzanne right? Had she wanted that policeman to notice her? "No. Maybe a little envious of your outgoing nature, but not jealous."
    "Please be happy for me." Suzanne put her arm around Andrea.
    Guilt flooded her. Maybe Suzanne was truly in love this time. It wasn't fair to judge her so harshly. "Suzanne, I love you like my own sister. I worry about you, that's all."
    "I'm certainly safe enough with a cop."
    What was the use? She prayed Suzanne wouldn't get AIDS. They'd been friends too long. Andrea smiled. "Let's hope so."
    "There. You smiled. I knew it. You are happy for me. I just stopped by to let you know I won't be home tonight."
    "At all?"
    "Not at all. Now I've got to go to psychology and have Jamison stare at my boobs for two hours."
    "What?"
    "Oh, you know. That priest I told you about. He acts real nervous when I'm around. The other day, he stared at my chest during class. The whole time. Gave me the creeps. Then he began talking about self control. Here I was thinking about getting laid while he was talking about self control and drooling over me the whole time. Made my skin crawl."
    A nervous shiver snaked through Andrea. There was a maniac in town and until he was caught, no one was safe. "Shouldn't you talk to someone? Report him?"
    "Oh, don't get your feminism in a dander. He just stares, that's all. What would I charge him with, felony lust?"
    Andrea shuddered. "But he's a priest."
    "They're men too, you know. Although it's hard to imagine a priest with a fantastic, blue-veiner hard-on."
    Andrea sucked in her breath and laughed. The vision Suzanne had painted was too unbelievable.
    "Suzanne, you're hopeless."
    "Yes'm, I hope so. Listen, got to run. Remember, don't wait up. Love you."
    Before Andrea could say a word, Suzanne was out the door. What a tease. Her roommate's description of Jamison surprised her. He was a psychologist and a priest, but he was also Dorlynd's chaplain and ministered to her terminal patients. He had never once leered at her or conducted himself any way other than totally professional. Either Suzanne was fantasizing, or Andrea was anything but sexy.
    Proving her point.
    She was a sexless, jealous bitch. She'd even wished a priest would leer at her instead of Suzanne.
    
No!
    She was irrational. Too much had happened. Milton's murder had traumatized her worse than she'd thought. She'd regressed back to the whiny fool she'd been before Sarah's death. She couldn't let that happen. She'd never survive.
Chapter VII
    
. . . AND THAT BY PRECEPT, ORAL TEACHING AND EVERY OTHER MODE OF INSTRUCTION I WILL IMPART KNOWLEDGE OF THE ART TO MY OWN SONS AND TO THOSE OF MY TEACHERS, AND TO DISCIPLES BOUND BY A STIPULATION
    
AND OATH. . . .
         Andrea glanced at her watch. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes until that cop showed up. She gazed around her room. Where had she placed her jewelry box? Of course, beneath her bed. She pulled out a pearl necklace and fumbled with the clasp. Her fingers slipped, dropping the piece to the floor. Had it really been so long since she'd been on a date?
    What date? Krastowitcz had no interest in her. He saw her as a suspect and only business. He'd wanted to ask her more questions. She had to keep her perspective, it was only business. Of course, only business.
    Wasn't it?
    Then why had she spent more time than usual on her makeup and clothes? Why did she reach in the back of her closet, behind her stuffy suits, until she found a peach silk dress? Simple. It was perfect for the heat. She slipped the dress over her head and it slid down her body like a second skin. Why hadn't she worn it more often? Probably too preoccupied with work. Her fingers hesitated over the button against her neck. If she buttoned it, she'd look silly, like she'd tried to hide something. If she didn't. . . she looked at herself in the mirror, soft and feminine, the way Suzanne was.
    What would it be like to have strong arms around her? A man's powerful arms. Arms like Sergeant Krastowitcz'.
    The buzzer interrupted her thoughts and she jerked. Looking one last time in the mirror, she hurried toward the door. Through the peep hole, Krastowitcz stood directly in her sight shifting from one foot to another. Small beads of sweat framed his broad face and he looked tired.