Critical Judgment (1996) (35 page)

Abby traced that one and then skimmed the rest of the book. It was past four-thirty, and the caffeine was beginning to wear off. She returned to the front desk and found Esther, a cherubic woman with a large button on her blouse proclaiming that Readers Are Leaders.

“Here’s the
Chronicle
from the twelfth,” she said. “The one from last February is on this microfiche. The machines are in the central hall, just through those doors.”

“Thank you.”

Abby tucked the paper under her arm and turned away.

“Kelly’s a fine woman, isn’t she?” Esther said.

It was a statement, not a question. Abby turned back and smiled at the librarian.

“The best,” she said.

There was an open microfiche reader, so Abby decided to start there. The newspaper issue was from February 3—six and a half months ago. The front-page headline heralded the upcoming election to fill a vacancy on the regional planning board. The sports page praised the Valley Regional High School basketball team for once again winning its league. So normal. However, one of the obituaries that day was anything but.

Stunned, Abby read then reread the obituary. A triple murderer, eventually gunned down by police, yet thought enough of in the community to have a well-attended memorial service.
Schumacher had not been feeling well and had recently been under a doctor’s care
. She had no doubt that the symptoms he was experiencing
would include blinding headaches and violent, unpredictable mood changes. A call to his widow was all that would be needed for confirmation.

The second death was as fascinating—and disconcerting—as Schumacher’s. It was written up on the front page and in the obituary section of the August 12
Chronicle
. Abby had read about it and even discussed it at work. But at the time there was no reason, other than the obvious, to be interested in it. Now there was.

Twenty-seven-year-old Ethan Black, son of the industrial baron, Ezra Black, had ended his own life with a leap from the twenty-third-story office of noted San Francisco psychiatrist, Graham DeShield. Ethan held a degree in accounting from Cal State Fullerton and had been employed as comptroller at Colstar for the last two and a half years. He was a pilot and had done some set design for the Valley Players. In addition to Ezra and Estelle Black of Feather Falls, California, he left a sister, Ellen St. Germaine, of Berne, Switzerland.

DeShield refused comment to the press except to issue a statement that said Ethan had been responding well to treatment of his severe depression, and that his death was a terrible shock.

Ezra Black, the billionaire industrialist, speaking from his Feather Falls ranch, expressed his profound grief at his son’s death and also some frustration with the medical establishment for not having solved the mystery of depression. Ironically, one of Black’s companies, Coulter Pharmaceuticals, manufactured the antidepressant Xerane, one of the most widely prescribed drugs in the world.

Abby took notes on the article and the obituary. She knew of Dr. Graham DeShield and, in fact, had once attended a lecture he had given to a packed house at grand rounds. It had been several years, maybe five or six, but she remembered feeling that he had described some of his celebrity patients in enough detail so that
they were identifiable by anyone who read the papers or watched TV.

The self-aggrandizing allusions had made his talk fascinating, but Abby remembered feeling grateful that for the brief period of her life when she had seen a therapist, it wasn’t DeShield. She set aside her notes and studied the face of the young man who was heir to a billionaire’s fortune.

It was the headaches, Ethan, wasn’t it?
she thought.
But how did you get exposed? You worked in the accounting office. How on earth did you get exposed?

CARDOZA … CRISTOFORO … SCHUMACHER … BLACK … JOSH …

Abby printed the names out block style, then added, … 
HOW MANY OTHERS???

She packed her things in her briefcase, then gathered two more pieces of information before leaving the library. The first was the telephone number of Gustav Schumacher’s widow, and the second was the location of Feather Falls. The town, on the edge of Lake Oroville and the Plumas National Forest, was barely a dot on the state map. But Abby suspected that most of that dot belonged to Ezra Black. She recalled reading articles about his vast ranch and estate—a splendidly isolated, rustic palace with its own helipad and game preserve. Depending on the roads, Feather Falls looked like a one- to two-hour drive south. It wouldn’t be the first time she had used her M.D. to get through operators to unlisted numbers. Whether Ezra would be there, and whether he would see her, were other matters altogether.

It sounded insane to be trying to approach the owner of Colstar about the cadmium crisis caused by his own company. But his son had died a horrible death. And possibly, just possibly, Ezra Black had no idea why.

D
orothy Schumacher, Gus’s widow, lived in a modest red-shingled ranch on the west end of the valley. It was just after eight in the morning when Abby pulled up in front. The previous evening she had succeeded in convincing an operator that there was a medical emergency that required her to speak with Ezra Black in Feather Falls. The tycoon had spoken with her, although he was clearly annoyed with her ploy.

“My daughter is in Europe, my wife is here with me, and my son is dead, Dr. Dolan,” he said. “There is
no
medical emergency that could possibly be of interest to me. So state the business that is so important you had to abuse your privilege as a physician. If I sense you have done so to request money from me in any form, I shall hang up, and you can expect to hear from the state medical board first thing in the morning.”

In spite of herself Abby felt intimidated talking to the man whose face she had seen on the cover of
Time
, and whose reputation as a maker and breaker of people was universal.

“I want to talk about your son.”

“Go on.”

“I would prefer to speak with you in person, Mr. Black.”

“Why?”

“I have reason, good reason, to believe that Ethan might have been chemically toxic when he died.”

“What sort of chemical?”

“Please, Mr. Black. This would be much easier for me to explain in person.”

“Dr. Dolan, we have not met, but I am well aware of your role in the death of Gary Wheaton’s wife. And what I know does not sit well with me. So kindly answer my question, or this conversation is over.”

Abby felt flustered and frightened. Black was used to being The Man. And there was no way he was going to relinquish an iota of control to her. She had somehow expected that getting hold of him would be the hard part. Now she knew better. She tried to choose her words carefully, knowing that if she was too careful, Black would sense it at once and might close up shop on her. She wished she had done some research into Ethan Black’s medical history, but there simply wasn’t time. All she had were the few facts she had read in his obituary and a lot of hunches. She knew that he had been an employee of Colstar, that he had been depressed, and that he had killed himself in a horribly violent manner. The rest was pure conjecture.

“I believe the chemical he was exposed to is cadmium.”

“From the plant?”

“Exactly.”

“Ridiculous.”

“I have high blood levels documented on one patient, and evidence that several more have been exposed. All of them worked for Colstar at one time or another, and all of the patients I know about have exhibited violent behavior toward themselves or others.”

There was a prolonged silence. Abby knew that something she’d said had struck a nerve.

“I’ll see you at noon tomorrow here at Feather Ridge,” Black ordered. “Just drive straight through the town of Feather Falls and keep going about half a mile. The main street ends at our ranch. The gateman will be expecting you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Black.”

“Just be sure to bring enough hard evidence to interest me in what you are saying. Because as things stand, I don’t trust you, and I certainly don’t believe you.”

But you believe
something
I said
, Abby thought as she set down the receiver. The main questions were, What? and Why?

Desperate for sleep, with her body rapidly running down, Abby tried unsuccessfully to locate Willie Cardoza’s girlfriend. Colette Simmons’s phone had been disconnected. According to Lew, Angela Cristoforo, Abby’s second choice, lived with her mother. Abby tried the number but got no answer. There were some notes regarding headaches in Angela’s Caledonia State Hospital record, but nothing that well documented, and nothing Abby could get her hands on before she had to leave for Feather Ridge. That left only the widow of Gus Schumacher. Her number had been listed under “Dorothy and Gustave” in the Patience Valley phone directory.

“Gus was such a good man,” Dorothy Schumacher said. “I knew there was something that caused him to do what he did.”

“I can’t make any promises,” Abby replied. “But I’d like to meet with you for a short while tomorrow morning if that would be all right.”

Dorothy gave her directions and made her promise to leave room for coffee and homemade Strudel.

Abby set the alarm for six, located Josh’s tape recorder, and set it on the dining-room table. Then she pressed her face into the pillow, almost too exhausted to fall asleep. Thirty-eight hours straight. She felt as if she had aged a year.

Dorothy Schumacher, soft and prematurely silver-haired, looked as if she had been put on earth to wear an apron and spoil her grandchildren. She greeted Abby with inborn warmth, but Abby could tell that she was putting up a brave front. Dorothy brought her directly into the kitchen, which was busily decorated with souvenir plates, collector spoons, and wrought-iron trivets. Lew had said to allow two and a half hours to make the eighty-mile drive to Feather Falls. Abby knew from the moment Dorothy started bustling about, talking nonstop about her late husband, that she would have to work hard to maintain some control over
this
conversation if she was to reach Ezra Black’s home by noon.

“If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Schumacher, I’d like to record what you have to say.”

“Please call me Dotty. Nobody calls me Mrs. Schumacher or even Dorothy. Dotty always just seemed to fit, ever since—”

“Dotty, is it okay to record some of this?”

“I have no problem with that. No problem at all. When we were married twenty-three years ago, we recorded our wedding ceremony. Imagine, twenty-three years. I listened to it just the other night and—do you take cream in your coffee?”

“A little milk, please. No sugar.”

Abby switched on the tape, then flicked it off again as the bereft woman began talking wistfully about the last bowling league she and Gus had been in. It was going to take some artful interviewing to keep Ezra Black listening for more than a few seconds. She waited until Dotty paused for a breath and switched on the machine again.

“Dotty, I don’t want to put any words in your mouth,” she said quickly, “and I’ll try not to. But could you please tell me what Gus was like for the few weeks
before he went to Las Vegas and … and got into trouble.”

Once again Dotty started rambling, giving a day-by-day account of Gus’s life before he left on his fateful trip to the Golden Nugget Casino. Abby had spent many hours in medical school learning how to avoid asking patients closed-ended, leading questions such as, “Does the pain go up into your jaw?” Rather, no matter how much longer and more cumbersome the history taking would end up being, the request that needed to be made over and over again was, “Tell me about your chest pain.… Tell me more.… Is there anything else you can think of?” She knew that, as with patients, being forced to ask directive questions would greatly devalue Dotty’s story. And Ezra Black would know it, too. Still, without several hours and a skillful sound editor, there was nothing else she could do.