Doc in the Box (23 page)

“It’s a surprise,” I said as we headed toward the Riverfront. I found a parking spot on the cobblestone levee, almost under the Gateway Arch. The Mississippi River looked like a churning sea of mud, but the
water was still low enough I could park on the levee. Sometimes after a hard rain, the furious brown river rose so fast it engulfed the cars parked there.

Katie surveyed the brightly colored riverboats bobbing at anchor. Some were excursion boats, others were for gambling. “So where are we eating? A spectacular view doesn’t usually go along with anything in the
Gazette
budget.” Then she saw the boat at the far end.

“Oh, shit, you’ve suckered me, haven’t you?”

“I’ve delivered as promised. An unpretentious spot on the river, terrific view, fast service, and prices even the
Gazette
won’t balk at. Besides, this place is unique.”

“It’s a fucking McDonald’s,” she said.

“It’s a floating McDonald’s,” I said, laughing. It was a barge topped with an imitation Victorian riverboat, like a white cardboard pastry. The size of its golden arches was mandated by law so they wouldn’t outshine our own six-hundred-and-thirty-foot silver Arch. The rain had kept the tourist crowds down, and we quickly got our food and ate at a table on deck. I not only paid, I dried the seats with a hunk of paper napkins.

“Listen, I’ll take you somewhere decent next time,” I said. “I promise. I just couldn’t resist.”

“You’ll sacrifice anything for a joke,” Katie grumbled. “Even my stomach.”

“In that case, why is Miss I’ll Have a Salad Instead of Fries eating a Big Mac?”

“Everything in moderation. Even virtue,” Katie said. I eyed her Big Mac and extra-large fries enviously. My plain burger and side salad looked sadly
skimpy. But I had other things to worry about besides food.

“I’ve done some checking,” I said. “All three of the candidates you picked look good for the murder. I checked them out, then ran their names through the newspaper files. Nothing bad on any of them. The bus mechanic wasn’t in the paper at all. Cal the pawnshop owner was quoted in a
Gazette
story, but it was a friendly feature about yuppies using pawnshops after the stock market went belly up. Cal told the interviewer that they were pawning five-hundred-dollar Dunhill briefcases and laptop computers. The ex-cop got a commendation for bravery fifteen years ago, when he was still on the force. That’s all. I can’t eliminate any of them. They’re all equally good suspects. They have two surgeons between them. You still believe the surgeon is the next target?”

“I do. But I’m not making any guarantees,” Katie said. “I just think he’s the most likely target.” She looked worried and earnest, even with a tiny fleck of special sauce on her lip.

“Let’s say you’re right. When do you think he’s going to kill again? He’s taken between two and five days between murders. There were no murders today, so he’s not speeding up. Tomorrow is the fourth day after the Tachman killing. If he’s still operating on the same schedule, he’ll kill again either tomorrow or the next day. Does that make sense to you?”

“It does,” she said. “But he may decide to wait longer for some reason we don’t know. Then again, he may stop completely. If he’s killing for revenge, maybe he’s already nailed everyone he thinks
deserved to die. If he’s a terminal cancer patient, he may be too sick to continue.”

“And if he has a dying wife, he may be spending all his time at her bedside,” I said. “Cal’s wife is in a coma and not expected to live. He could be waiting until she dies for the final revenge.”

“There you go,” she said. “That’s another reason.”

“The one I can’t figure out is the ex-cop. Harry’s boss says he’s unreachable. There’s no phone in his cabin. So is Harry waiting for something in particular, or just sitting in the woods, drinking himself to death? Maybe there’s some anniversary or something that’s important to him. When did his son die, Katie?”

“I don’t know. I can check. But if I have to get that information from the medical records Nazi, you really owe me.”

“Another lunch,” I said. “One that’s not on the expense account.”

“Deal,” she said.

“Which of the two doctors do you think he’ll go after?”

“I’d say Harpar,” Katie said. “Maybe. If you think the person is murdering because of medical mistakes, then Harpar is more likely to be the surgeon who’d screw up. If you want a doc who’ll tick off someone by saying the wrong thing, Boltz is your man.”

“What would you do now if you were in my shoes?” I asked.

“Go to the police with what you know. Have them put extra security on both surgeons.”

“Wouldn’t work,” I said. “I’d sound like a complete nut. Anyway, how could I tell them where I came up with my information? And who would believe me?
Mayhew is always telling me to stay out of police business. He’d just lecture me on my half-baked theories. You remember how he carried on last time. I couldn’t find him now, anyway. Marlene says he hasn’t been in Uncle Bob’s in days. He’s working long hours on these Doc in the Box murders, and it’s getting to him. Last time I saw him, he looked like death warmed over.”

Katie dredged a french fry thoughtfully through some ketchup. “Well, in that case, I’d hang around one doctor’s office and warn the other.”

“All day?”

“At least until twelve-thirty. There haven’t been any shootings later than that. You can bring your laptop and write.”

“But what if nothing happens tomorrow? This could go on for weeks,” I whined.

“It could,” Katie said, “but I don’t think it will. They’ve increased security at all the Moorton Hospital buildings, and that’s where Boltz has his office. He’s probably the safer of the two. I’m sure the police have figured out the same pattern you have and warned them. Harpar has an office in some ritzy section of West County, so he’s not going to alarm his rich patients with too many rent-a-cops and security cameras. He’d be more at risk. I’d hang out at Harpar’s office for a few days, and warn Boltz with a phone call. It’s all you can do.”

The river seemed to be rising while we talked, and I wondered if it was time to move my car. We watched a big sycamore tree with a scrap of pink cloth caught in its roots rush by. Then the rain started again, big fat drops. We dropped our trash in a can and ran for the car.

An hour later, Katie called me at work. “You hit it right,” she said. “The ex-cop’s son died a year ago Saturday. If the grieving father is going to do anything, my guess is it will be in the next two days.”

What about the grieving husband? I checked the hospital to see how Faye Smithman was doing. The person in patient information said, “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Smithman is no longer at the hospital.”

No longer at the hospital? What did that mean? Did Faye recover enough to go home? Was she transferred to a hospice? Or was she dead? I hated to call her home, so I called the pawnshop instead. I got this recording: “We are closed until Monday due to a death in the family. Thanks to all our friends and customers for their sympathy and understanding.”

Faye was dead. Cal the pawnbroker and Harry the ex-cop both had serious reasons to want revenge. Cal’s grief was new and raw. Harry was facing the first anniversary of the death of his only son. And what about Bill? How much time did this terminal patient have left? Was it too late for him to get revenge?

I called Dr. Boltz’s office to warn him. His staff treated me like a cross between a blackmailer and a candidate for a jacket with wraparound sleeves. I wished I hadn’t used my real name when I made the call.

Dr. Boltz’s first name was Theodore, and even his own mother never called him Ted. I’d never met the man, but Valerie had pointed him out to me in the halls at Moorton. He looked like a prototype for a human being, with his long head, large nose, big ears, thin arms and legs. Nothing was quite in proportion, as if he were made from spare parts. His hands,
though, were superb: slender and sensitive. Hands like that might give a woman interesting thoughts about Dr. Boltz. Until she saw the sneer on his face. Boltz regarded ordinary humans as inferiors. Ordinary humans preferred to deal with him only under full anesthesia.

I’d spoken on the phone with his receptionist, Sandy, who’d transferred my call to his assistant, Kristine, who brushed me off when I told her Boltz’s life might be in danger. “We will inform security,” she said coldly.

“You might want to check your records for disgruntled patients and their families. Pay special attention to anyone who threatened to sue Dr. Boltz, or anyone who claimed their wife’s or son’s death was Dr. Boltz’s fault.” That was as close as I could go. I couldn’t name Bill, Cal, or Harry, or it would be slander.

My delicate hints were wasted. Kristine went from cold to downright frosty. “Dr. Boltz is a highly skilled surgeon who has never been sued,” she said. “His patients and their families are very satisfied. Moorton Hospital has excellent security, which has recently been increased. We have received an alert from the St. Louis Police Department. Dr. Boltz does not need help from a … newspaper columnist.” She said the word “columnist” as if my profession was something disgusting. Maybe she was right. Then Kristine said Dr. Boltz would consider legal action if he were exposed to “unwarranted media attention.” She implied that I was doing this for the publicity. Maybe I should just let him get shot. Some people are mighty hard to save.

But Katie said he was a gifted surgeon. I couldn’t
let him die, no matter how unpleasant he was. His death would be a terrible waste. There was a real possibility that Boltz was on the Doc in the Box death list, and if so, time was running out for the good doctor. Well, I’d warned him. It was the best I could do.

The next morning dawned dark and humid, another dismal day of rain. I packed up my pepper spray, umbrella, and laptop and prepared to spend the morning at Dr. Harpar’s office on Woods Mill Road. The office was a forty-minute drive from downtown on a good day, and this was not a good day. A relentless rain stripped flowers off stems, turned puddles into lakes, and morning traffic slowdowns into angry, horn-honking snarls. It took over an hour to reach Harpar’s ugly, expensive office building. The dash through the downpour on the parking lot left me thoroughly soaked. I shook out my wet umbrella, dropped the pepper spray in my pocket, and looked for a place to settle in for the morning. It was nine-oh-three. I had no idea what Harpar looked like, but at nine-ten a fortyish white-coated doctor with beautifully graying dark hair entered through a side door. He looked like an actor playing a doctor. I could almost hear him saying, “Nine out of ten doctors recommend …” I hoped this guy was Harpar. He was definitely worth saving.

Harpar was in practice with two other colorectal surgeons, Drs. Cobbleman and Harg. Their waiting room was painted a dreary powder blue. Rows of square, stiff chairs were upholstered in the same fabric. The walls were decorated with generic boat paintings. I wondered where doctors got all this mediocre
art. Was there a Warehouse of Waiting Room Paintings? I could almost hear the salesman: “We have some nice flowers here, doctor, nothing too Georgia O’Keeffe, if you know what I mean. Then there’s your sailing ships. Ships probably aren’t suitable for waiting rooms with pregnant women, but they convey a very manly, very in-charge feel for a surgeon. Nice investments, too.”

Most of the patients this morning were small, frail, and elderly. They didn’t look anything like the descriptions of Harry, Bill, or Cal, our three potential Doc in the Box killers, and I was grateful for that. I was looking for three men who were absolutely average: average height, average looks, average age between thirty and fifty. Weight a little on the lean side. Try picking those faces out of a crowd. All I had to go on was that Bill the bus mechanic had curly dark hair and long eyelashes. Cal the pawnbroker had thick blond hair, and Harry looked like a graying South Sider with steely eyes. But by the time I saw those eyes or Bill’s long girlish eyelashes, it would be too late.

Just in case they recognized me from my picture in the paper, I’d crammed all my hair under a scarf turban. That might look strange in most offices, but it helped me blend into a place that catered to cancer patients. In a turban, I was a new woman—one I didn’t much like the looks of. Usually, my round German face was slimmed by long straight hair. The unflattering turban made my face look like a potato. Ah, well, I didn’t want to be recognized. My best friend wouldn’t know me in this getup.

The Rockford Files
was on the wall-mounted TV.
The Rockford Files
was always on in a waiting room
somewhere. James Garner would live forever in doctors’ offices. I took a seat with my back to the television, so I could watch the nurses calling patients in for their appointments, and started typing on my laptop. The morning crawled painfully forward, like a wounded animal. Rain pounded the windows. Scores of wet patients arrived and departed, but none of them looked even vaguely like Harry, Bill, or Cal. Harry was the one I was really watching for, since this was his son’s doctor, but I kept an eye out for the other two, just in case. You never knew how St. Louisans were connected.

Two nurses were calling patients’ names. One was a brunette, petite and serious. Her name tag said Kim. The other was a lanky blonde named Lucy who liked to joke with people. It was a little after eleven when I heard the blond Lucy say to a man, “No, no, you have Kim and me mixed up. It’s because we look so much alike. I’m Dr. Cobbleman’s nurse. Kim works for Dr. Harg.”

I felt a rising stab of panic. Which one worked for Dr. Harpar? Wasn’t this his office? I closed my laptop, went to the receptionist’s window, and rang the bell. I glanced down at the sign-in sheets. There were long lists of names for Cobbleman and Harg, but nothing for Harpar. Now I was really worried. The receptionist slid back the window and I said, “Excuse me, when will Dr. Harpar be in?”

She looked at me, surprised. “I’m sorry, didn’t we call you? Dr. Harpar won’t be here this week.”

“He’s gone?”

“The doctor is in St. John at an important medical conference.”

Yeah, right, I thought. Social workers and librarians had their conferences in Omaha. Doctors went to expensive Caribbean islands.