The Skeleton's Knee (21 page)

I took the elevator down to the lobby and located a pay phone instead.

“Runnion.”

“Hi, this is Joe Gunther.”

There was a chuckle at the other end. “Been mugged yet?”

“Only by bureaucrats. Can you put a name into your computer and see what comes up?”

“Sure. You hit something?”

“Maybe. Dr. Kevin Shilly—orthopedic surgeon.”

“Hold on.”

I waited ten minutes. Runnion’s voice, when he came back on, was almost apologetic. “We don’t have a thing. I found him in the phone book, though—office only; residence is unlisted.” He gave me an address on North Michigan Avenue.

“Would your files go back twenty years or more?”

“No, but there would’ve been a note to check the archives, along with a reference number.”

I thanked him, promising to give him an update as soon as I could, and then dialed Northwestern Memorial Hospital.

It took twenty minutes to get Dr. Yancy on the line, during which I received several malevolent mutterings for hogging the phone.

“Sorry—I was with a patient. Any luck with the affable Dr. Hoolihan?”

“You weren’t kidding. He gave me one name, without actually saying it was the guy I’m after. Kevin Shilly. Does that ring a bell?”

There was a long pause. I remembered wondering earlier if Yancy had pointed me to Hoolihan in the hopes the old man would say what Yancy could only silently suspect. I knew now I’d been right.

“I know of him,” he finally admitted.

“How?”

“It wasn’t front-page news or anything. He didn’t get in trouble legally. But he did get in trouble. Hoolihan threw him out, from what we heard through the grapevine.”

“He was the one you were thinking about when you mentioned young doctors chafing at the bit?”

“Yes, but I was only guessing.”

“So what else did the grapevine say?”

“He did something like what you described—collected some extra money for a risky procedure that didn’t pan out. I guess that was around ’72 or ’73. Hoolihan and the others at the top had ordered him not to do it, so they had just cause, but there was history there, too. I guess it wasn’t the first time—just the first time he got caught.”

“Shilly didn’t lose his license or get reprimanded?”

“Almost. That’s another reason Hoolihan still bears a grudge. Shilly was pretty political back then, trying to socialize medicine, kick over the old traditions, open the place up to poor neighborhood blacks. And he wasn’t publicity-shy; he had good contacts in the media. When he got canned, a deal was made. Hoolihan was to let it go; Shilly was to keep his mouth shut. End of story. It helped that the patient wasn’t one of the complainers, despite the operation’s failure. Shilly had totally charmed the old lady—so they say.”

“What did he do afterward?”

“In terms of gossip, he pretty much disappeared after his run-in with Hoolihan—did the storefront-practice bit for the disadvantaged for a couple of years, I guess, then decided to hang it up and go for the money. I hear he’s got a high-class private practice north of the river.”

“But no more scandal?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I always thought the entire episode was a little pathetic—basically two good people refusing to bend, to the detriment of everyone. A big waste, especially there. That’s one of the best medical outfits around, except for here,” he added with natural pride. “And Shilly could’ve been one of their stars.”

The address Runnion had given me over the phone put me back in the vicinity of Northwestern Memorial, but far from its comforting atmosphere of institutionalized caring. Indeed, the tall modern steel building I entered forty-five minutes later smacked more of wealth, commerce, and business deals than of medicine. Nevertheless, on the thirtieth floor, attached to an elegant hardwood door, was an ornate brass plaque boasting the name KEVIN SHILLY, M.D.–ORTHOPEDIC SPECIALIST.

Beyond this door was no iron-spined harridan ready to throw me out like Hoolihan’s secretary, nor a white-clad nurse asking if I had an appointment. Instead, I was greeted like a guest by an elegant young woman in a business suit who hovered in style between classy receptionist and upscale therapist.

She rose from her desk and escorted me to a ponderous antique table with two ornate chairs, gesturing for me to sit, explaining all the while that her name was Giovanna, that she was delighted to meet me, and that she’d like to know exactly what my problem was and how Dr. Shilly might be of service.

I knew it was so much shellac—a justification for what was obviously the Oscar of medical fees—but it was soothing, flattering, and unique, guaranteed to make the wealthy lame feel they had finally found their proper healer.

I took my seat, therefore, and gazed placidly into Giovanna’s large hazel eyes. “I was wondering what made Dr. Shilly any different from any other orthopedist.”

For all her grace, Giovanna had been drilled with all the zeal of a hard-nosed encyclopedia salesman. “Years ago Dr. Shilly became aware of how shoddily many patients were being treated by the average hospital staff. Despite their pain and anxiety, they were being reduced to mere numbers on an admission form. Often, they were not assigned fully trained physicians, but residents and even interns. They were used as guinea pigs for medical students and exposed to needless embarrassment and harassment as a result.”

“So Dr. Shilly offers something a little more refined,” I interrupted pleasantly.

She smiled. “That’s well put. However, the fact that Dr. Shilly’s service is more supportive and encouraging is a small thing in itself; what he offers above all is possibly the best orthopedic care available in the city.”

“He’s that good, is he?”

She tilted her head to one side and smiled with irrepressible enthusiasm. “He’s wonderful—the most caring man I’ve ever met.”

It was a great show, improved, no doubt, by Giovanna’s conviction that most of it was true.

“I heard he was thrown out of the University of Chicago for playing fast and loose with the rules.”

Her smile froze.

“I’m a policeman, Giovanna—Lieutenant Gunther. I wonder if you could tell Dr. Shilly that I’d like to speak with him?”

She got to her feet awkwardly, her sales pitch forgotten. “Well, I… Does he…? No, I guess not. Could you wait here a sec?” Scratching her head, disturbing that perfectly brushed hair, she left the reception area.

It didn’t take long. Both the message and the messenger were alarming enough to grant me almost instant gratification. Giovanna returned in five minutes and stiffly asked me to follow her down a short hallway to a pleasant and spacious examining room, complete with more antique furniture. There, I was told to wait.

Using a hostile approach had been a calculated gamble, and not one I’d planned before crossing the threshold. But the exclusive layout of Shilly’s practice, combined with what I knew of his past, suggested a man in a permanent dilemma, hanging between an angry, idealistic youth and a crassly exploitative middle age that had made him what he’d hated years ago: a complicated man who deserved a complicated approach.

He entered quickly, nervously, his tanned, urbane, well-tended face a cross between anger and confusion. He looked beautiful otherwise. His clothes were immaculate, the shoes soft Italian leather, the French cuffs of his shirt peeking out just the right amount from beneath a fashionable jacket. He looked like a Neiman Marcus store manager—better than the customers but dependent upon their cash.

His tone did not match his attire. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely.

I emptied my well-traveled envelope and showed him the X-rays. “This knee implant was done twenty-four years ago.” I paused. “Remember it?”

He snapped the pictures into a wall-mounted light box and peered at them in stony silence for a long time. His face, already tense, was otherwise unreadable to me. “Why do you want to know? What’s this about?”

Interesting side step, I thought. “Do you remember the operation?”

He hedged again. “Do you have any idea how many of these I do every year? Multiply that times twenty-four.”

“It was done fast—the cement was mixed with antibiotics so you wouldn’t have to wait for the wound to stabilize. It was the type of showy stunt you became infamous for at the University of Chicago.”

His face reddened. “That’s total crap. I had new techniques they weren’t willing to try, techniques that are common today. I was good and I was right. They threw me out because they couldn’t admit that.”

I nodded my head toward the X-rays. “That’s not a common technique even today; it’s still a risky shortcut. Why’d you take it?”

He hesitated, watching me. This was the break point; he either went for the bluff or he came up with one of his own. “I didn’t,” he finally said, his voice back under control. “I’ve never seen those before.”

I didn’t show my disappointment, although I shouldn’t have been surprised; I should have known that while a risk-taker might age gracefully, he’s not one to deny his own nature. Shilly had just won his bet that I had no proof connecting him to the negatives.

I shook my head, trying a different angle. “That’s too bad. We know your connection to this guy—but we were hoping you’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Obviously not.” I stood up and collected the X-rays off the light box. “I guess we’ll make you a part of the full investigation.” I looked at our opulent surroundings. “And then we’ll see where we all end up.”

I gave him plenty of time to reconsider, slowly stuffing the X-rays back into the envelope, but he held firm, if none too steadily. The sweat on his forehead told me that. I finally headed for the door, opened it, and looked back at him. “You decide to come clean, call Norm Runnion at Area 6 headquarters.” I gestured at the expensive furnishings of the room. “Be a shame to jeopardize all this for such a little thing.”

His eyes widened slightly at the last two words, but he kept silent.

“Good-bye, Dr. Shilly—for now.”

I checked my watch on the elevator, trying to be philosophical about this snag. For some reason, while I knew my mysterious skeleton’s surgeon had played it fast and loose, I’d never actually thought he’d played a criminal role. Now I wasn’t sure. Shilly’s behavior was either the response of a natural gambler, hoping that a denial would be all that was necessary, or he was more involved than I’d thought. A third possibility—that he hadn’t performed the surgery—was no longer feasible. His body language, Hoolihan’s and Yancy’s suspicions, and my own experience had all killed that one.

I reached the lobby and sought out the guard I’d seen stationed at a TV set–equipped console earlier. A pleasant young black man in his twenties, he smiled as I approached. “Can I help you?”

I pulled out my badge and flashed it at him quickly, doing the fingers-over-the-top trick that had worked once before. “Yeah, I was wondering if you could tell me where the residents of this building park their cars.”

He sat back, the smile spreading to a grin. “And why would you like to know that?”

That threw me off slightly. “Police business—we’re conducting an investigation.”

He nodded affably. “Sounds real good—for who?”

I paused, weighing my options, knowing he’d nailed me. Finally, I just shrugged, pulled out the badge again, and dropped it in front of him. “Sorry—trying to cut corners. For the Brattleboro Police Department, in Vermont. I’m on assignment, working with your local police.”

The smile faded to mere politeness. “I work with the local police, too. I just moonlight here.”

“Call Norm Runnion in Area 6 and ask about me.” I said this with as much joviality as I could muster, since I sensed my interrogator was losing his humor fast. If I didn’t become legitimate quickly, I suspected I’d be a host of the city in a whole new way.

He dialed the phone before him and spoke into it briefly, eventually hanging up with a doubtful expression. “Okay—he says you’re straight.” The emphasis was on the
he
.

I leaned over and retrieved my disreputable credentials.

He gestured at them as I did so. “I wouldn’t pull that stunt again. You want to know where they park, right?”

“Yeah, I just want to keep an eye on someone here.”

“Who?”

He had me there. It was a question I didn’t need to answer, and another phone call would have made that clear, but the unwritten rules said differently—he’d caught me red-handed, and I owed him one. “Dr. Kevin Shilly.”

He raised his eyebrows and grunted, checking a three-ring binder by the phone. “Mr. Beautiful. Take the elevator to the second basement—slot 2-318. It’s a brown Mercedes—two-seater. There’re enough empty slots that you can park pretty near and keep an eye on it.”

“Thanks.”

He stopped me as I turned to go. “What’s Vermont like?”

“Lots of mountains, lots of trees, lots of bullshitters like me.”

He laughed and waved me off.

· · ·

The parking basement was typical of its kind—gray, low-ceilinged, with drumlike acoustics, spotty fluorescent lighting, and a regularly spaced army of squatty cement pillars holding the roof up. The Mercedes was where the guard said it would be, and I was able to park my rental behind one of the pillars, but in clear view of slot 2-318.

Why I did so was another matter, and it underlined the uneasy vagueness that had plagued this case from the start.

I had nothing on “Mr. Beautiful.” He, and Fred Coyner, and the defunct Abraham Fuller, and even the left-handed skeleton with the all but perfect teeth could have played different roles from the ones we’d ascribed them, simply because we had no solid proof to make ours the unchallenged truth.

So for now they remained in an orderly row—Shilly, for all his denials, being merely the latest one in line. But sooner or later, I knew one of them would break ranks and lead us in the right direction, and then the entire line, as if by the wave on parade, would follow. It was just a matter of time and perseverance—and maybe a little encouragement.

I HADN’T BEEN WAITING
for more than half an hour before I heard footsteps echoing through the garage, approaching from the elevator bank. I slid down in my seat, waiting for whoever it was to pass by.