Mercy (24 page)

“Messed up? Can you be a little bit more specific? I mean, you seem to absorb the language just fine.”

“No—it’s just messed up.”

“Tell me exactly how it’s messed up.”

Jordan stayed quiet.

“You saw something. You have a point to make. Now make it.”

“There’s variability in the size, shape, and staining of the cells.”

“Variability? You noticed that?”

“Yeah—the cells, they look, um…”

“Look like what, Jordan? Tell me, or I might have to find your replacement.”

“The nuclei in the luminal half of the cells are stratified and show pleomorphism. That means there’s a lot of distortion in the cells.”

Lucy exhaled a loud breath. “Well, now. That
is
quite a lot of our nomenclature you’ve absorbed.”

“Pleomorphism.” Jordan’s voice was barely audible. “That’s a characteristic of malignant neoplasms.”

Lucy stood with her arms akimbo. “I know what pleomorphism means,” she said through clenched teeth.

Jordan bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Abruzzo. I shouldn’t have said anything. I just—I just messed up, that’s all. I’ll wait right here while you deliver that report. But you shouldn’t do it. This guy has lots of cancer. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Funny, I thought I was the doctor and you were the diener.”

Lucy opened the report and studied it carefully. Instead of leaving, she took the top page of the report, and with a roguish expression ripped it in half.

“Well, lucky for us this patient doesn’t actually exist,” Lucy said with a smile.

Jordan was dumbfounded. “What?”

“I’ve noticed things around here. Relevant Web sites open to cases we happen to be reviewing, journal articles of certain importance left in the break room. But when you happened to stumble upon a mysterious lab report—one that seemed to have fallen out of the sky—and correctly diagnosed cobalt poisoning, well, let’s just say my suspicions were roused,” Lucy said. “But I couldn’t prove it. I looked, but whoever used our medical records system to run that lab was a shadow. Even the IT folks couldn’t find you.”

“I didn’t—I—”

“Jordan, please. I’m smart enough to know this fictional patient I baited you with was riddled with cancer. I’m also smart enough to know that you’re a hell of a lot more than a diener. What I don’t know, and what you’re going to tell me right now, is why you sent Brandon Stahl the EKG and echocardiogram of Donald Colchester.”

CHAPTER 29

The state police barracks in the town of Russell was a two-story redbrick building located a few miles from where a stranger accosted Julie. After navigating the curved driveway, Julie brought her car to a stop in a mostly empty parking lot and got out in a hurry. The man and his motorcycle could not have gone very far. They still had a chance of tracking him down.

Caught up in the urgency of the situation, Julie was having trouble settling down. She had never experienced fear like this. It transcended the emotional and became something physical, leaving her utterly drained. Whoever this man was, his presence lingered. If she closed her eyes, Julie could see that featureless mask and haunting black eyes staring back at her.

My client doesn’t appreciate your efforts to free a killer.

Who could that client be? Julie had a good idea, and she planned to share those feelings with the state police.

In no time, Julie was seated in a cramped waiting area, facing a Plexiglas window through which she could see patrol officers and dispatchers at work. A police officer eventually emerged from behind a steel door and introduced himself as Trooper Sean O’Mara.

He greeted Julie with a firm handshake. O’Mara wore the uniform of the Massachusetts State Police—blue shirt, dark blue tie, and dark pants with yellow stripes running down the legs. He was short and stocky, and seemed well suited for this type of work.

O’Mara had a stern face that Julie found slightly unnerving. She had expected someone older—a seasoned detective to hunt down an experienced predator. This stranger had known when to approach her, how to conceal his identity, and most important of all, how to get away.

“We’ll go to the interview room,” O’Mara said.

A small smile and a sympathetic look lessened Julie’s anxiety. She had come here voluntarily and under duress, and she needed a dose of empathy.

O’Mara carried a clipboard with a police report attached into a small, windowless interview room. He invited Julie to take a seat across from him at a metal table. There was nothing on the gray-painted concrete walls. She provided all the requisite information, including her driver’s license. O’Mara filled in the form, while Julie sipped from a bottle of water he had supplied.

“So in your words, tell me exactly what happened.”

He had a young-sounding voice to go with his young-looking face, but Julie imagined he could ratchet up the intimidation factor when called upon. She also got the sense, after she explained in detail what had happened at the river, that this interview was not going to go as she hoped.

“Did he make a direct threat to hurt you?”

O’Mara asked the question in a leading way, so Julie would know the best answer would be yes. She tried to recall all that was said, but her thoughts were a bit jumbled.

“Not exactly,” she confessed. “The whole encounter was a threat. And he did give me this.”

From her purse, Julie produced the picture the man had slipped into her jacket pocket. O’Mara studied the photograph intently.

“Is this your son?”

“Yes. That’s Trevor.”

O’Mara turned the picture over and glanced at the back.

“There’s nothing written here. Did he give you a note to go along with the picture?”

“No. Just the picture. But it’s obvious, isn’t it? If I don’t back off, something will happen to me or to Trevor or to us both.”

O’Mara studied the photograph again, but his expression implied nothing here was obvious.

“What is it he wanted you to stop doing?”

Julie sighed. “That’s a long story.”

“Try me.”

“No disrespect, Officer, but shouldn’t you be out looking for this guy? He was riding a motorcycle and had on a navy peacoat and a black baseball hat.”

Julie got a flash of O’Mara’s harder look.

“Any chance this guy dumped the coat and put on a helmet?”

“I suppose.”

“Make and model of the bike?”

“I told you, I couldn’t see it.”

O’Mara pulled his lips tight. “Being honest here, you’re not giving me a lot to go on.”

Julie tried not to let her exasperation show. Inside, a simmering anger replaced what had been a lingering fear. This stranger had snuck up on her, unquestionably threatened her, and would suffer no repercussions for his actions.

“What about security cameras?” Julie asked. “Maybe they got a photo of the motorcycle and a license plate.”

O’Mara cocked his head and paused. “Well, I know this stretch of road pretty well,” he said. “There are no cameras in the vicinity where the incident took place.”

“Maybe further down the road? Look at all the motorcycles.”

“That’s a lot of manpower and time,” O’Mara said. “You don’t have a make or model of the bike, and no real description of the man.”

“Maybe he knew all this beforehand,” Julie said.

O’Mara cleared his throat and jotted something down on the police report.

“Look, say we find this guy, which I’m not saying we can even do. We could talk to him, but I’m not sure we could charge him with any crime.”

Julie was aghast. “He threatened me.”

“There are possible crimes here; I’m not saying there aren’t any. Criminal stalking, for instance, but that requires a pattern, a series of events over time. It’s the same with criminal harassment. Did you at any point feel that your life was in danger?”

Julie looked O’Mara in the eyes. She understood he was not going to help her.

“I felt in danger the whole time, but he didn’t specifically say he would hurt me. I told you that already. His entire demeanor was threatening.”

“An extortion attempt?”

Julie pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. “No.”

“Nothing stolen. No weapon.”

“No to both.”

“Well, maybe we can get him for violating your Constitutional rights.”

Julie went a little slack-jawed. “That’s a law?”

“Section 11H. Sure is.”

O’Mara wrote something down on the police report, while Julie returned the photograph to her bag. She tried to think what to do next, because this was going to take her nowhere. She got up from the table.

O’Mara peered up from his report. “The restroom is down the hall,” he said.

“I’m actually going to leave. I need to get home to my son and I’ve got the sense there’s not much we can do here.”

O’Mara spun the clipboard around, pushing it toward Julie. As he did, he handed her his pen. He did not appear to disagree.

“I need you to sign this before you go,” he said. “And as far as what we can do regarding this situation, without a description of the individual, make and model of the motorcycle, surveillance footage, I’m afraid you’re right. There’s not much we can do.”

Julie signed the document. “Thank you for your time,” she said.

She agreed only in part. There was not much they could do
together,
but there was something Julie could do by herself.

*   *   *

IT WAS
late Thursday afternoon when Julie parked her car in the garage near the Massachusetts State House. The drive east had not been an easy one, and her stomach clenched every time she saw a motorcycle.

She had phoned Paul from the parking lot of the police station and made arrangements for him to take Trevor after school. Of course she gave him her list of things to do. Trevor had a dentist appointment, and after that Paul needed to swing by Sports Authority to pick up a gift card for a boy’s birthday party, and then bring Trevor to the same boy’s apartment for a sleepover. Friday was a professional development day for the teachers: no school. Julie did not tell Paul anything about her frightening ordeal at the river, nor did she explain why she needed him to look after their son. Paul would worry and try to get involved, take over. He had that annoying alpha male, let-me-fix-your-problem gene.

She thought again of the stranger and her maddening conversation with Trooper O’Mara. The anger returned, and it was a good thing, too. Julie wanted as much venom in her as possible for the upcoming encounter with William Colchester.

A stout administrative assistant escorted Julie into Colchester’s expansive, carpeted office. Julie had little hope she could arrange a meeting with the state legislator on such short notice, but had boosted her odds by using some rather convincing language.

“I’m Dr. Julie Devereux from White Memorial Hospital, and I need to speak with Representative Colchester about his son’s real killer.”

That got the lawmaker’s schedule shuffled around right quick.

William Colchester’s office featured a stellar vista overlooking Beacon Hill, one of the more posh neighborhoods in Boston. As if to underscore his illustrious career as a public servant, the walls were tastefully decorated with framed photos of Colchester hobnobbing with local political and Hollywood elite. Two of Boston’s brightest stars, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, were featured prominently on his wall of fame. A cast-iron stand held an American flag at one side of his cherrywood desk, and on the other side stood the flag of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. No doubt about it, William Colchester was a proud man of the people.

Though he was in his late fifties, William Colchester’s complexion and dark hair, cut well above the ears and swept back with a generous application of Brylcreem, shaved more than a few years off his appearance. He was tall, fit and trim, and had the look of an amateur boxer because of a crooked nose.
Bar fight, perhaps?

He possessed a charming albeit thin-lipped smile, and a handshake practiced at not being too soft or too firm. He had a father-knows-best quality, dignified and respectable in a tailored blue suit, white dress shirt, and bold red tie. He was also a born and bred Bostonian; Julie got the sense that when his suit came off, the Bruins jersey came on.

She knew his bio well enough, having read up on him prior to her meeting with Brandon Stahl. Community organizer, coach on the Hyde Park Hoopsters, director at City Year, and the list went on. Appreciation for his efforts came in the form of election results that had allowed him to legislate in the Massachusetts House for more than twenty years, and as such had amassed a powerful constituency and friends in many places—including, as Julie believed, MCI Cedar Junction.

“Thank you, Denise,” Colchester said to his assistant. “Hold my calls, will you, please?”

Denise gave a nod that bordered on being a bow, and backed her way out of the office. Colchester pulled out a chair and motioned for Julie to take a seat at the round conference table. Polite, chivalrous, and all an act, Julie believed.

“I must say your call took my breath away,” Colchester began. “You say you have important information to share about my son’s murderer?”

He said it “murder-ah.” Here at the State House the Boston accent was a mark of authenticity, and those who had it owned it with pride.

Julie collected her thoughts. The feeling of a man lurking behind her was nothing but a trick of the mind. Reaching into her purse, Julie took out the picture the stranger had slipped into her coat pocket and laid it faceup on the conference table.

Colchester examined the photo closely. “That’s you,” he said. “Is that your son?”

“That’s what somebody put in my coat pocket a few hours ago. Somebody who didn’t appreciate that I was looking into the possible innocence of Brandon Stahl.”

Colchester flinched. The glint in his brown eyes dimmed. “I don’t understand. What’s this about?”

“It’s about a man who threatened me and my son because of a conversation I had with Brandon Stahl in prison, but I suspect you already know that.”

Colchester interlaced his long fingers and rested his hands on his desk.