The Path of Silence (26 page)

“Is that sort of thing unusual?” I asked. We needed more to go after Patterson than negligence or lack of competence when it came to directing and overseeing his staff.

He snorted softly into the phone. “Not really. In a State facility, that sort of thing happens often enough when there’s not enough medical staff. My own psychiatrist attended me four times a week. I noticed the same level of care with quite a few other patients. Patricia was another abandoned case, though I saw her taken away for rehab sessions. After I’d been there four months, this male patient, his name was Henry, stopped coming to the lounge. I asked the orderlies what happened to him. They said he had a heart attack. A month later, another one of those three remaining patients stopped coming to the lounge. I asked once again. The orderlies said he passed away in his sleep. By the time I signed myself out of the facility, the other two were also gone.”

“Mr. Kane, if they died of natural causes—and you said that’s not unusual in any medical facility—why would you think they had disappeared?” I felt something was missing here.

“Because three weeks before I left the Mongrove facility, a couple came in, surprise visitors. They were Henry’s uncle and aunt, missionaries, who had just returned from an overseas assignment. I was in the lounge, resting, pretending to be dozing. The Chief Resident doctor activated the wall screen and showed them Henry—well cared for. It was an old tape. Henry’s relatives left happy that he was being so well cared for.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kane,” I said, chills running down my spine.

“I’m sorry about Patricia. I always felt she was a hostage, not a patient,” he said and hung up.

I told my partners what Kane had said.

“Experimenting on psychiatric patients to get the implant device just right?” Ken murmured, examining this possibility and finding it as frightening as I did.

“We still don’t have enough to go calling with a warrant,” Field said.

“Probably not. And even if we started an investigation into those four disappearances, we’d only alert Patterson and his accomplices. I’m pretty sure they’re closing down their Baltimore operations. If we spook them, they’d do it faster, covering their tracks, destroying all the evidence.”

An hour later, when I checked my e-mail, I found Nancy Bassiano’s list of regular customers who were designated VIPs and merited transport in a Creeslow limo. Felix Kim’s name was on top of the list. I wasn’t sure whether Nancy had slotted him as number one because Ken specifically asked about him, or whether Kim was such a regular customer he fitted that slot. If latter were the case, then Felix Kim was probably number one target and the rest of the people on the list weren’t of interest to Creeslow operators. Still, we had three murders and a suspicious death at a psychiatric facility. I forwarded the list to Bourke, giving him details what it was about. He was the boss. It would be his call how to contact those nine customers without setting off another wave of panic in the population. Bourke called ten minutes after I sent the e-mail.

“I’ll send a patrol officer with a public health representative to visit each of the nine citizens,” Bourke said. “We’ll be following up on a report of a contagious disease at the travel agency. We’ll make sure the customers understand that it’s just a routine precaution, according to the public health agency protocol.”

I concurred, thanked him and hung up before he asked for an update report.

Two days later, I went to see Joe in Hopkins. Ken refused to accompany me, since it was going to be a semi-business meeting, a lunch, in the garden room—with Brenda to complete the happy threesome. Field went to network with his agents, though that’s not how I put it. He said I was getting to be very cynical, for someone who had not yet crossed the fine line that divided youth from the middle-aged pit.

“Joe, is it possible for a psychiatrist to have the kind of expertise that would allow him to perform neurosurgery, cranial implants?” I asked, when we gave our food orders. I made it come out like a general question, with no particular focus in mind. I should have known better.

“You’re angling on to this Patterson fellow?” He took the shortest path to the source of my curiosity, as always. His shoulders were exceptionally well squared, his head was thrust forward in anticipation of challenge and his face sported a foxy smile, one I hadn’t seen too often—actually, never. I traced the target of that smile and stifled a sigh, feeling sorry for my partner. Brenda pretended to be immune to our medical examiner’s charm but I saw the corners of her mouth twitch with amusement. Well, most women liked to be admired, regardless of what other relationship commitments they had.

“John Forsyth,” Brenda said, “one of Quigley’s doctors, is a certified clinical psychiatrist, who went on to specialize for three years at the Rhode Island Hospital of Neurosurgery. He’s one of the leading researchers of brain tumors.”

“A lot of doctors have more than one specialty,” Joe confirmed. “Have you started checking out Patterson?”

“He appears to be legit.” I didn’t want to involve more people in this investigation, no matter how eager they would be to help. Joe was a part of it, by virtue of his job and continued involvement but Brenda didn’t need to be saddled with the extracurricular activity of spying on her colleagues. It was enough that Joe had decided to mount a crusade on behalf of the Hopkins’ patients, present and future. A possibility of another violent spectacle like the one with Quigley that saw the explosive device publicized like nothing else, worried me no end.

“I have a friend on staff in Mongrove—” Brenda started to say. I hastily put my hand over hers.

“No.” I underscored my refusal with a commanding look. “Ken and I appreciate your help. You’ve already done a lot but stay out of Mongrove.”

“Maybe I should have taken a closer look, done an autopsy,” Joe said.

“What do you mean?” I turned to him.

He waited until the waiter put down our salads and the breadbasket before continuing, “The body they brought from Mongrove, female patient, Vanier. I read the report. It agreed with what I found on the x-rays. Severed spinal cord, death was instantaneous. No other external injuries, bruises or lacerations—”

“No broken bones?” I interrupted. We saw the tape. Patricia fell into an open manhole—feet first. The manhole was large but not the size that would have allowed Patricia’s body to tumble or bounce off the walls as she fell. No matter how deep that manhole, she would have landed on her feet and broken at least her ankles, if not suffering other fractures. She could have hit her head and died from such a blow, maybe even a broken neck but there had to be other injuries consistent with what I saw on that tape in Patterson’s office.

Joe gave me a pained look. “Could have been. I was busy. The two guys from social services were breathing down my neck, wanted a signed release so the funeral home could collect the body that afternoon. The x-rays came with the body. That’s all I had time to check and confirm. The fatal neck injury was consistent with what the report said.”

“Why were they in such a hurry?”

“Vacation, what do you think?” He scowled at me. “Or the funeral home was having an early burial special,” he added wryly.

“She was cremated.”

“There you go. They do cremations twice a week at Salomar. They must have wanted to fit her in quickly. Every day the body’s stored in the morgue costs money, you know. I signed the release and sent her file to Morris.”

“Paxton Morris? Why would you do that?” I didn’t expect to come back to the Hopkins’ social maverick doctor since the last time Joe mentioned him, he suspected him of being Dr. Martin. However, I assumed that nothing had panned out along those lines or Joe would have already confronted Morris, maybe even made a citizen’s arrest.

“I told you he’s on Quigley’s staff, one of his heart surgeons,” Joe replied casually, getting ready to attack his salad.

“You thought he might be Dr. Martin,” I said carefully, feeling I was sharing “work issues” with civilians.

“Well, he still might turn out to be your Dr. Martin. He came to Hopkins just over three years ago. I don’t have details of his medical background but I’m working on it,” he said.

I didn’t remember discussing details of our IMF visit with Joe. Then again, he might have overheard us discussing it. “Joe,” I said, “it might not be safe for you to continue your involvement in this case. If it is a doctor and you feel strongly it is, well…when you can’t be safe among your colleagues… I worry about you, that’s all,” I finished with a shrug because Joe was glowering at me.

Even as I maintained eye contact, his scowl dissolved and he ended up smiling. “Meg,” he winked at me, “I’m flattered that you worry on my behalf but I’m of no interest to these people, whoever they are. I’m not an economist, I’m not a waiter, I’m not a programmer or a tradesman. I’m a pathologist. Who would want to exert control over me and more important, why bother? Do you know that of all the medical professions pathologist enjoy the longest life span?”

“Yes, Joe, you told me that’s why you chose to be the keeper of the dead.”

“Actually, I chose to be the doctor to the dead because they don’t complain. I’m sure you noticed, my bedside manner is not the greatest,” he said, laughing.

I laughed too even though there was nothing to feel merry about. “So, what do we know about this Dr. Paxton Morris?” I asked.

“He’s the one who usually does all the uninsured cases and those who have to be taken from emergency straight into O.R., heart attacks and serious problems,” Brenda said helpfully.

“Yes, Joe’s already told me he’s a social maverick, the type of doctor I like,” I said.

“He’s what you might call a…” Brenda’s eyes settled on the wine carafe the waiter had just put in the middle of the table, arranging the glasses around it. “House wine.” She found the analogy.

“A specialist but way down in the medical hierarchy,” I said, still wondering why Joe had given out Patricia’s medical file to Morris.

Brenda’s mouth twitched uncomfortably. I saw this was the part she didn’t like about her work environment, the fierce stratification and corresponding pecking order of the doctors, which, of course, translated into glory—and money. Ability alone was not enough for a doctor to earn a higher position up the ladder. He had to have connections and publications that made his name resonate in all the right circles.

“He’s not really a maverick, Meg, just a bit of a social advocate,” she said, sounding defensive.

“Insists on equal treatment for all?”

“When you attend too many homeless cases and ignore too many directives that mandate insurance information be collected before you proceed with more expensive procedures, it’s going to get noticed.” She sighed and I felt she knew more than she was willing to tell me.

“Morris has done that?”

“Routinely,” she smiled crookedly. “He’s a good surgeon. He’s done a quite a few open-heart surgeries and implants on people who would otherwise not have been able to afford them. The hospital’s Board of Directors noticed and issued him a reprimand. He ignored it. Then they issued a warning. He’s now on this third notice. One more and his employment and hospital privileges will be suspended. He has a way of controlling, making everyone respond to his orders in a way that there’s no time to get sidetracked by protocol—insurance, liability, who’s going to pay—things like that. And once you have your patient in the O.R. with an open chest, well…” Brenda trailed off.

Morris continued to sound like someone I would not have minded meeting—to shake his hand. He also didn’t fit my stereotype of Dr. Martin.

“All right, Joe, why would you give Patricia’s medical file to Dr. Morris?” I interrupted his energetic hand motions between the glass, the breadbasket and the salad.

“She was his patient.” He paused long enough from chewing to spit that out.

I leaned back, hardly breathing. Perhaps I needed to overhaul my thinking approach to stereotypes and everything else. If Morris was Patricia’s doctor he could well have been Dr. Martin who attended her fiancé, Brick. Indeed, it would have been logical for Dr. Martin to continue exerting his “control” over Brick through Patricia, held prisoner in a state psychiatric facility.

“Did Morris attend Patricia in Mongrove routinely, or was it just a one-time specialist’s intervention?” I asked.

“She came into his care about two years ago. Can’t remember the details. Didn’t memorize her file, you know. Just glanced through it. I was busy. Two cases of suspected industrial poisoning,” Joe spoke in fragments between bites.

“What did he treat her for and where?”

“Suspected heart problems, murmur or palpitations, can’t be sure which. He ended up operating on her hiatal hernia. Flap wasn’t closing, acid shooting up into the esophagus. I confirmed the scar from that surgery. It was neatly done, no doubt about that.”

“So Patricia’s surgery was done at Hopkins?”

Joe shrugged and shook his head. “Of course. Didn’t I just say that?”

“Her x-rays were only of the neck injury?”

“Meg, she died of a broken neck.” Joe pointed his fork at me, as if it was a dart and I was a target. “Doctors don’t normally go berserk, taking x-rays of every single square inch of a dead body when they know what’s the cause of death. Besides, she was a social services case. X-rays cost money. Yeah,” he slashed the air furiously with his fork. “I know what you’re thinking. I ought to have done an autopsy. It’s too late now. The body’s been cremated. If she did have an implant—or a pacemaker—we’ll never know. Besides, I don’t think she had that kind of shit in her chest.”

“How would you know? You didn’t do the…” Social conscience or not, Paxton Morris now fit my refurbished image of Dr. Martin very well. I wasn’t crossing James Patterson off my meager list of suspects but Morris was a stronger contender for spot number one. He was a heart surgeon who probably routinely installed pacemakers—and he had an accomplice, at Mongrove.

“Because she was a female,” Joe said almost threateningly. “So far, your three cases were male.”

“Are you suggesting that this mad genius who’s planting bombs in people’s chests hasn’t figured out how to do such a dastardly deed to a female anatomy?” I snickered.