Always Kiss the Corpse (38 page)

“What?”

Lorna said, “His alibi.”

“You want me—?”

“Yes, I want that. We need that.”

“But how can I—”

“Stockman. Cool. I know how to handle this. With a little help from each other, we can all handle it.”

“But if you—”

“It's going to be just fine. You want it to be fine, and I want it to be fine. So does Lorna.” He turned to her. “Right, Lorna?”

She met his gaze, but said nothing.

“Right. Richard was killed this evening by a person or by persons unknown.”

“What—” Lorna looked away then, “what happened to the pistol?”

“I got rid of it.”

“Where?”

“We're on an island. There's water all around.”

“But—where?”

“You don't need to know. All you need to know, and you'll know it when you see it on TV, is the motive was robbery. Richard put up a fight. He died.”

Stockman sighed heavily. “The poor man.”

Lorna stared at him. Had it taken so little for him to accept Gary's story as truth?

“What kind of wine did we drink, Stockman? A Liebfraumilch?”

“Too sweet with honey chicken. A Chardonnay. One of our fine Washington state wines.”

“I don't like Chardonnay. Let's say, a Pinot Gris.”

A chill crept down the marrow of Lorna's bones. She needed some time to consider all this— Gary had gotten up. She thought she heard an echo of his words, that he needed a bathroom. She saw Gary walking away as through a mesh, a receding figure, vague and dim. She heard Stockman say her name. “Huh?”

“Are you okay?”

“Okay?” What an incredible question. “No. No. He killed Richard. While we were having dinner. Just like that.”

“I know.” Stockman rubbed the back of his neck. “It's all over.”

“Maybe not. But we have to make him go to the police. It's not a good route but the only possible one I can think of.”

“He's out of control, Lorna.” Stockman thought about an uncontrollable Gary. “Again.”

Lorna thought back to the night Sandro Vasiliadis died. Till now their most worrying moment ever, brought on by Gary's lack of restraint. “In Seattle.”

Stockman nodded. “That woman.”

The story had nearly gotten into the news, a local reporter. Gary had convinced the others he should be allowed to engage in sexual intercourse with certain patients for whom such therapy would be helpful. And just before the act, a patient decided she didn't want his help. Gary insisted. The woman went to the police and tried to bring charges. After interviewing Gary and his colleagues the cops decided she'd brought the incident on herself. So she laid the story out for that damn reporter. Gary just about lost it. A quiet fury, but extreme. He told the woman to withdraw the story. She refused. Gary made it clear what could happen if she continued: the incident would bring shame to herself, to her family, and especially to her twelve-year-old daughter, the girl would be laughed at, maybe beaten up, possibly sexually attacked, who could tell with a mother like that. The woman and her daughter left Seattle. Gary had made all the danger go away.

Lorna said, “I will have a bit of Scotch.”

Stockman found a glass, poured, brought it to her.

Gary returned. “It'll all be fine. You'll see. Just like it was with Vasiliadis.”

Stockman glared at him. “We agreed to never mention it again!”

Gary laughed. “Very well for you not to mention it. Just like you didn't want to do anything about it. Who had to drive us there? Who had to convince the guy? Who had to administer the morphine? Not you, Stockman. You didn't want to mention it. Who had to hide those syringes? Not you, Lorna. Sometimes I can't stand either of you.” He crossed to the Scotch bottle, poured. “Any of that honey chicken left? I haven't had time to eat.”

“Yes,” said Stockman. “There is.”

“Come on, you guys. You'll see. It'll be fine.”

Lorna didn't believe him. Not this time.

≈  ≈  ≈

No clean underwear. One pair of socks, Kyra's least favorite. The contents of both bureau and closet seemed unreasonably skimpy. Ah, the dryer! Where they'd been since Sunday morning. The other way to store clothes. She dumped everything into the laundry basket and carried it to her bedroom. The other way? For five minutes she organized, piled, hung up clothes. She started the coffee. The other way. She pulled on underwear, jeans, a shirt. She knocked on Noel's door.

“Mm?” He lay in bed, half-awake.

“Remember what Ursula said Sandro said: ‘This is what I get for trying to go the other way?' About his swollen balls?”

“Mm?”

“We've been understanding ‘the other way' to mean becoming a woman. What if he meant he knew he'd get transgendered without surgery?” She stared at him. “What if he was telling her that?”

Noel sat up. “That they were using the fish stuff on him. Without his actually saying it?”

“Because they'd warned him against talking to anyone beyond the clinic. Because he was involved in an unapproved experiment. Because—” The phone rang, her personal line. She picked it up and turned her back to Noel, to give him privacy. “Hello?”

Noel swung his legs out and pulled on his trousers. He went into the bathroom.

Kyra sat on the end of the bed. “That's great, Jerome, thanks so much . . . Good,
sans
Nelson . . . Depends on the case . . . I'll let you know.”

Noel returned after she'd hung up. “Jerome's FDA friend had checked into the WISDOM experiments. Jerome was right, early-stage research in transgendering by hormones alone. They have approval to use animals. But not human subjects.”

“That drug in Sandro's cabinet?”

“Derived from hermaphroditic fish species.” Kyra headed for the kitchen to check the coffee maker. “Okay. What we know. Transgendering via drugs is successful on the mice. They try the hormones on humans. Something goes wrong with Sandro—”

“And one of them killed him?”

“We don't know that. Had they tried the hormones on anybody else?”

“Maybe Sandro was the first.” Noel spoke slowly. “Nobody knew about anybody else. Wouldn't Chelsea have heard if there'd been a non-surgical success?”

“Maybe not. It all must be pretty secretive.”

“These guys are in deep shit.”

“We need to see their files.” Kyra poured the coffee. “Tonight—?”

“No. We go to the police.” Noel spoke firmly. “We tell them enough to interest them. They seize the files.”

“Does doctor-patient confidentiality override a search warrant?”

“There's a lot of legal dispute about that. At least in Canada.” He took the mug Kyra handed him. “Thanks.”

“We could confront the other doctors. The smug ones, Jones and Haines.”

“No. Let the police—” The business line rang. Noel headed for the study and took it.

Kyra turned on the radio and sipped her coffee. More alleged terrorists jailed for interrogation, a small plane crash. Local morning news, “A Whidbey Island physician was shot at close range yesterday evening.” Kyra turned up the volume. “Dr. Richard Trevelyan, an endocrinologist at the WISDOM clinic in Coupeville, was found in front of his home. He is in critical condition. The State Patrol suspects robbery. The same Dr. Trevelyan was also in the news on Saturday when he was plucked from the water by the Coast Guard ship
Neptune
after an explosion aboard his pleasure yacht. In other news—” Kyra turned the radio off.

Noel returned. “That was Chelsea wanting an update. I filled—Kyra, you're white—”

“The doctor, that endocrinologist? He was shot last night. Trevelyan.”

“The one whose boat exploded?” Kyra nodded. “Is he dead?”

“No, but critical.

“How?”

She told him what she'd heard.

“The cops have to, have to, confront the other doctors.”

“We've got suspicions, that's all. That sheriff won't give a damn.”

“Maybe that State Patrol cop.”

“We need more information. I'd prefer to break in, go through the files ourselves.”

“No, Kyra. Period.” He picked up his mug. “We tell Assounian what we've figured out about the clinic. Then we talk to Trevelyan's wife. Before anybody else dies. Or gets hurt.”

“I bet she's with him at that hospital in Coupeville,” Kyra said. “Can you find the number?”

He did. Kyra picked up the phone. “You have Richard Trevelyan there? . . . ICU? . . . What's his status? . . . Thanks.” She hung up. “Still critical,” she told Noel. “Let's go.”

“I'll return the rental on the way.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Just three of them at the conference table this Tuesday morning. The only good thing for Lorna, Gary wasn't doused with aftershave.

Stockman said, “You told us he was dead.”

“He will be soon. No one could live through that much trauma.”

“So far he has,” Lorna said. “He was still in a coma when I stopped by at the hospital.”

“So we have to rethink,” said Stockman. “If Richard dies and no suspicion falls on you, we won't give you away. Right, Lorna?”

Lorna nodded, reluctantly. “But if he lives, he'll name you. And we won't, at least I won't, cover for you.” She looked at Stockman, who nodded also.

“He won't live,” Gary repeated. “He won't regain consciousness.” He smiled. “It'll be fine.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Kyra followed Noel to the car rental. He climbed into her Tracker. They drove in silence. As she slowed for the Anacortes turnoff, she said, “Do you think she'll even talk to us?”

“We should have called.” He took his cellphone from his pocket. “We still can.”

“I'd rather just arrive.”

“If I were her, I wouldn't see us.”

They crossed the bridge onto Whidbey Island, through Oak Harbor, into Coupeville and parked at the hospital. At the desk they asked for directions to the ICU. “But no one's allowed in,” said the receptionist.

Kyra said, “Is Ursula Bunche on duty today?”

The receptionist picked up her phone and asked for Bunche. “Thank you.” She set the phone down. “She's here but she's terribly busy.”

“Richard Trevelyan's in ICU, he's my cousin,” Kyra pleaded “We're pretty sure his wife's there, she'll want to talk with us. Ursula could go in and ask her to come out.”

“There's a phone by the ICU door. You can talk to the nursing station. They can tell you,” she raised an eyebrow, “if your cousin's wife is there.”

“Thank you.” They followed the receptionist's directions and found the phone. Was Richard Trevelyan's wife with her husband? She looked at Noel. “The nurse'll see if she's available.” Noel watched Kyra shuffle until she said, “Thank you,” and put the phone down. “She'll be right out.”

A woman, her blouse rumpled, came through the doorway. “Yes?” The skin around her eyes, red in the whites, was puffy and bruised.

Kyra said, “Mrs. Trevelyan?”

The woman nodded. “Terry Paquette. Mrs. Richard Trevelyan.”

“This must be a terrible time for you, and we apologize for intruding.”

She glanced from one to the other. “What do you want?”

“We talked with your husband Saturday morning, before he went out in his boat. About Sandro Vasiliadis.”

“Oh. Yes.” She sat on a naugahyde divan.

“First,” Noel said, handing her a Triple-I card, “here's who we are. Please tell us how your husband is.”

“He's not regained consciousness, but they're hopeful.” She looked at the card, and at them. “Who are you?”

“As my partner said, we've been investigating the Vasiliadis death. We won't take much of your time.”

She stared at her hands. “I've got plenty of that. Ask away.”

Kyra sat on the divan beside Terry. Noel took a chair. Kyra said, “We are very sorry about your husband. It's awful.”

Terry's eyes watered. “I just don't understand.”

“We don't either, Mrs. Trevelyan. But we think—”

“Paquette. Terry. Richard's my husband. I never took his name.”

Noel said, “We think there may be more to the shooting than mugging and robbery.”

Terry stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Have you spoken with anyone from the police?”

“Two State Patrol officers came by last night. And Sheriff Vanderhoek was here a couple of hours ago. Why did you say that—more than robbery?”

“He almost died on Saturday, didn't he? At sea?”

“Yes, but—I mean, that was an accident,
Panacea
burnt and sank.”

“Ms. Paquette, can we back up a minute? Your husband was in charge of Sandro Vasiliadis at WISDOM, right? For transgendering.”

“Yes. The clinic was. All the doctors are involved in all the cases.”

“Would it be fair to say that something went wrong with Sandro's treatment?”

Terry paused for a moment. “Well, not all clients react similarly. Everybody's chemistry is slightly different, and—”

“But Sandro's treatment was experimental, isn't that correct?”

Terry shrugged.

“We know it was, Ms. Paquette. His medications included a combination of hormones, something called hipophrine, and something else called percuprone, to produce non-surgical transgendering. Isn't that right?”

Terry stared at them. “Why are you here?”

Noel glanced at Kyra. She began gently. “Ms. Paquette, WISDOM didn't have FDA approval to test these hormones on a human subject, did they?”

She said nothing.

“These two drugs were being tested on mice and rabbits. But a human?”

Terry interrupted with a whisper. “I don't know where you have your information from. But if you insist on making these accusations, at least be accurate. The animal tests were successful. And sufficient. Two trials on patients at the clinic were successful. Yes, something did go wrong with Vasiliadis. But we would have solved that problem, too.” She rubbed her forehead.