Читать книгу Medical Judgment - Richard L. Mabry M.D. - Страница 9

Chapter 2

2

Kyle Andrews sat hunched over his laptop computer at his kitchen table, his second cup of coffee at his elbow, skimming the news headlines. He looked up from the computer, took a sip of coffee, and wondered if it would be a good idea to call Sarah.

He’d first met Harry and Sarah Gordon when he came to town to set up his law practice. He’d actually met them where a lot of people in Jameson met—at the First Community Church. It wasn’t long before he and Harry became good friends, and Sarah appeared to be happy about that. Soon thereafter, Kyle met someone else at church, someone who changed his life. It wasn’t too many months later that he was engaged to Nicole, and the two couples double-dated frequently after that.

Nicole’s sudden death had left Kyle with a hole in his heart, but he’d tried not to show it. After all, that was what Christians did. But when Harry and Jenny were killed, Kyle figured he, more than most, had a sense of how the tragic death of a loved one might affect Sarah. And that was even more reason for him to offer support to her now.

Harry had never said, “If something happens to me, take care of Sarah.” Kyle figured he didn’t have to. That sort of thing was understood between friends. In the eight months since Harry’s death, Kyle had worked hard not to press Sarah, while still making sure she knew he was there for her. He’d like to do more, but there never seemed to be the right opening. For now he’d best simply stay close and be available.

Would this be a good time to call? He looked at his watch. Not quite eight. It was Saturday, and she might be sleeping in. On the one hand—

The ring of his cell phone made him look up from his computer. When he saw the caller ID he realized his decision had been made for him. Sarah was calling.

“Good morning,” he said. “I was about to call and see how you’re doing.”

“That’s why I’m phoning. I . . . I need your help this morning.”

“As a friend or as a lawyer?” Kyle reached for his coffee cup. “Did you get a speeding ticket yesterday, Sarah?” He smiled at the thought. Sarah was the epitome of the term, “straight arrow.”

“I’m meeting with the police this morning, Kyle, and I’d like you to be there with me.”

Kyle set the cup on the table without drinking. “Of course I’ll be there, but what’s going on? This sounds serious.”

The silence that followed went on longer than Kyle would like. Finally, Sarah said, “Someone tried to set fire to my house last night. That is, someone started a fire in my garage. It didn’t do much damage except for the smoke, but the police called it arson and want to talk with me this morning. I’m sure they’re going to ask me who might want to do such a thing, but—”

“But they have to consider whether a homeowner might do something like this to collect insurance,” Kyle said, finishing her thought. “Who are you meeting and what time?”

“Bill Larson said he’d call and set it up.”

Kyle’s mental file whirred and spit out data on Detective Larson. Late thirties, dark hair that always seemed to need a trim, not really handsome but possessor of just the type of rugged good looks some women liked. Larson had a reputation for persistence among the lawyers in town. When he was working a case, he was like a dog with a bone, never turning loose until he finished. That didn’t bother Kyle, but the presence of another man in Sarah’s life at this point was a bit disconcerting.

Of course, there were also whispers circulating around the courthouse that Larson’s excessive drinking was the reason for his divorce. The man’s ex-wife and son had moved to Montana, while Larson was starting over here in Texas. Evidently the detective had it more or less together thus far in his new situation—at least, it seemed that way. But Kyle knew that with alcoholics the struggle was lifelong and never-ending. An alcoholic was never “recovered,” just “recovering.” Larson would bear watching—on several levels.

“Did you see Larson after all this took place?” Kyle asked.

“Yes, we sat in the fire chief’s SUV and talked a bit. I didn’t really answer all his questions, but I think he could tell how upset I was. He suggested we meet today.” She cleared her throat. “Will you go with me?”

“Sarah, just tell me where and when. I’ll be with you as a friend, not simply as a lawyer.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But if I need a lawyer, I want you.”

You’ve always had me, Sarah . . . >and not just as a lawyer.

* * *

Bill Larson heard her footsteps before he saw her. He got up from his desk in the otherwise deserted police squad room. “Sarah . . . ” he started to say. But he stopped the word before it left his mouth. Keep it professional. “Dr. Gordon, thank you for coming down here,” he said.

She took the chair he indicated. “I . . . I didn’t think I had much choice.”

“Last night you didn’t seem up to answering too many questions. Coming here this morning seemed more convenient for both of us,” Larson said. “It saved me some time and effort. That’s all.”

“I hope I haven’t missed too much.” The words were accompanied by the sound of leather heels hitting the linoleum of the squad room in a rapid rat-tat-tat.

Larson frowned when he saw attorney Kyle Andrews hurrying toward his desk. “Nothing of significance, counselor.” The detective stood and offered his hand, then said, “Pull up a chair from one of those other desks. I was just starting to interview the doctor.”

Andrews reached down and hugged Sarah Gordon, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than mere friendship would dictate, something that didn’t escape Larson’s attention. Then the lawyer grabbed a chair from the next desk, pulled it over beside Dr. Gordon, and sat.

“Well, I’m glad I made it in time,” the lawyer said. “I always advise my clients not to talk to the police without their attorney present.”

Larson wasn’t certain why he didn’t trust Kyle Andrews. Perhaps it was just his nature as a policeman to look askance at people. His wife—that is, his ex-wife—had mentioned that tendency on more than one occasion. Today, Andrews was in full lawyer mode: gray glen plaid suit, red and gray tie, rust-colored hair carefully styled, rimless glasses giving him a serious look. Even his briefcase was perfect for the part, scuffed just enough to show it wasn’t just for show.

The detective directed his attention to Sarah. “Dr. Gordon,” Larson said, “Let me make it clear that we don’t suspect you of anything. I don’t think you’ll need a lawyer.” He looked pointedly at Andrews for a moment before turning back to Dr. Gordon. “I’ll say up front that all I’m looking for from you is information.”

“And I’ll say up front that I’m here to lend some support to a friend,” Andrews said with a half-smile.

Larson nodded. He sensed that he and Kyle Andrews might not end up exchanging Christmas cards. On the other hand, it seemed they both had Sarah Gordon’s best interest in mind. He’d accept that for now. The detective pulled a note pad toward him. “Let’s start with the names of anyone who might be angry with you—not necessarily someone who’d want to kill you, but people who might carry a grudge, be unhappy with something you’ve done. Disappointed patients. Frustrated colleagues. People from your personal life who might wish to harm you. Anyone.”

The doctor’s immediate response was, “I don’t know of anyone who fits that description.”

“You may change your mind as you think about that,” Larson said. “Let’s consider patients. How about them?”

“As an emergency room physician I treat dozens of people every day. Some of the cases are simple. Some are literally life-and-death situations. I exercise my medical judgment all the time, and if I make a mistake, the consequences could be minor or they could be catastrophic. Most of the time I don’t even remember the names of the patients I treat, much less which ones could be carrying a grudge.”

“Okay, I may want to go through some ER records with you to get some names, but we’ll come back to that,” Larson said. “Anything from your personal life? I’m sorry that I have to ask, but any ex-boyfriends, former lovers, men you disappointed?”

Before Sarah could open her mouth, Kyle Andrews said, “Are you implying—”

“I’m not implying anything,” Larson said. “I have to ask these questions, and if you think about it, you’ll see that.” He looked at Dr. Gordon. “Anyone?”

“No,” she said, and shook her head.

“Did you hear or see anything last night before the fire started? Was there anything that suggested there might be someone in your house or garage?”

She chewed on her lower lip. Larson knew from experience there was something there—if he could just keep quiet long enough.

“I didn’t hear anything until I awoke to the smell of smoke. There might have been a noise downstairs at about that time—I wasn’t sure. Then, after I got out of the house, I thought I saw a shadow hurrying around the corner of the house.”

“Which side?”

“Where the garage is,” she said.

“That would be the west side.” Larson made a note. “I know you didn’t mention this to me at the time, but did you tell the chief or any of the firefighters about it?”

“No, I guess I was too rattled,” she said. “And, honestly, I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t imagined it.”

“Do you have any idea how an intruder got into the garage to set the fire?” Larson asked.

“I’ve wondered about that,” Dr. Gordon said. “I have an electric garage door opener, and the remote is supposed to have what they call a rolling code so someone can’t just open the door with his or her own remote.”

“There are at least a couple of ways, actually,” Larson replied. “First, I noticed your car was parked at the curb last night. Most people keep their garage door opener remote clipped to their auto’s sun visor. Is that what you do?”

She nodded.

“Thieves now have sophisticated ways to get into cars without leaving a trace. If he did that, a press of the button on the remote and the garage door would open for him.”

“Is that what he did?” she asked.

“No, he used a very low-tech method to get into the garage, and he didn’t need a remote control for it.”

Andrews leaned forward in his chair and asked, “And you know this how?”

“Two things,” Larson said. “First, when we looked inside, the fire marshal and I both noticed the emergency release for the garage door opener had been tripped. And second . . . ” He reached under his desk and produced a straightened wire coat hanger and a small triangular piece of wood. “I found these on the floor of the garage near the door.” He shoved them forward. “You can touch them. They didn’t have any useful fingerprints on them.”

“How—” Dr. Gordon started to ask.

“Whoever broke in inserted the wooden wedge under the weather-stripping at the top of the garage door. Then he used the opening he created to insinuate this coat hanger along the track. When the coat hanger was far enough in, he hooked the emergency release lever and pulled it.”

“Then—” Andrews said.

“Then he set the fire, closed the garage door manually, and waited to see what happened,” Larson said.

“And maybe that’s the noise I heard,” she said.

“Which brings up the question of why all he did was pile some oily rags on the garage floor and set them afire. It would have been easy for the intruder to go through your garage into your kitchen and . . . ”

“And take what he wanted, assault me, or even murder me in my sleep,” Dr. Gordon said. “I wonder why he didn’t.”

Larson’s gaze went to Kyle Andrews and he realized the attorney had made the same assumption he had. Maybe whoever did this didn’t want to kill Dr. Sarah Gordon. Maybe he wanted to frighten her. And judging from what Larson had seen last night and this morning, he’d succeeded.

* * *

Early summer days in Texas could be pleasant or they could be very hot. It was almost noon, and today the sun on the concrete in downtown Jameson produced heat that was withering. Sarah stood in the shade of the blue awning that covered the entrance to the Jameson Police Department’s headquarters and listened as Kyle Andrews offered advice she didn’t want to hear.

“If you don’t want to stay with a friend or neighbor, why don’t you let me get you settled into a hotel for a few days? I know the owner of a company that does remediation—that is, they restore damage after fires. If I call him right now, I can meet his crew over at your house with a key. If they start cleaning the smoke and soot from your place this morning—let’s see, this is Saturday—you’ll probably be able to move back in by Monday. Maybe even earlier.”

“Kyle,” Sarah said, trying to be patient, “First of all, I don’t want some stranger to have a key to my house. And besides that, I’m not going to leave there . . . not even for one night.”

“Why?”

“Because that house was our home—mine and Harry’s and Jenny’s. It may be silly, but I don’t want to leave it.” She paused. “In a way, being there helps me feel close to the family I lost. And moving out, even for a day, might break that bond.”

This went on for a few more minutes, with Sarah repeating her reasons, until finally Kyle gave in.

“Okay, how’s this?” Kyle said. “Let me call the guy. You can meet him there and go over the damage. He can start his crew working this afternoon, but I’ll ask him to quit by seven or eight this evening, so you’ll have the house to yourself tonight. They’ll work around you. You won’t have to move out. They should be finished in a day or two, and when they do, your home will be good as new.”

No, it won’t. It will have been invaded. It will never be the same. But it will still be our home—mine and Harry’s and Jenny’s. “I guess that would work,” Sarah said. Then she had another thought. “I need to call my insurance agent and report this.”

“Tell you what,” Kyle said. “Let’s get out of this heat. We’ll go to my office. You can contact your insurance agent and let him get started. He’ll probably want to schedule a visit from an adjustor to inspect the damage. While you’re on the phone, I’ll use my cell to call Tom Oliver so he can get started. After that I’ll buy you some lunch.”

Sarah hesitated. “Kyle, you don’t have to do all this. I know I called you, but that was because I thought I might need a lawyer. If Detective Larson is to be believed, I didn’t really need legal representation.”

“You may not need me as a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure you could use a friend to help you through this. Remember, I was Harry’s friend. Now that he’s gone, I think I owe it to him to be around when you need me.”

As the two walked away, Sarah wondered if the call to Kyle had been unnecessary. When she reached out to him, she thought she might need an attorney, but judging from what Larson said this morning, that wasn’t the case. Now it seemed that Kyle wanted to take charge and help her through this trial. Sort of like what Harry would have done.

* * *

Bill Larson sat at his desk with his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows. He probably ought to get some short-sleeved dress shirts to wear during the summer. He’d thought about it recently, but he kept putting it off. Maybe it was because there were times when he thought this stop in Texas was just temporary. He had dreams of winning back his ex-wife, and of his family reuniting and moving back to Minnesota. Then again, maybe it was just inertia, the same thing that kept him living in a furnished apartment rather than looking for a house although he’d been in Jameson for almost a year.

He looked at his watch and did a rapid calculation. It would be an hour earlier in Montana. Annie and Billy would be up by now. She’d be having her second cup of coffee at the kitchen table and his son would be watching cartoons. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

“Annie, this is Bill.”

“Good morning.” He couldn’t tell from her words or the tone in which they’d been spoken what her mood was. He wanted to tell her he was working to get his life back together. He wished he could ask her if she was seeing anyone. He had lots of things he wanted to talk about, but any one of them might set off an argument. It was like trying to navigate through a minefield.

He talked for a few minutes with her—desultory conversation, nothing of consequence. He did manage to mention that he was staying sober, but Annie didn’t seem to want to pursue the subject. Finally he said, “Can I talk with Billy for a minute?”

But if trying to talk with his ex-wife was difficult, talking with Billy was like pulling teeth. It was obvious that the preschooler would rather watch Saturday morning television than talk with his dad. His answers were mainly monosyllables. Larson could picture him, one eye on the TV set, shifting from one foot to the other as he tried to talk with his father while not missing any of his favorite cartoons.

Finally, Larson ended the conversation, promising to call again in a few days. Just before she hung up, Annie said one thing that encouraged him. “It’s good that you’re sober. I hope you stay that way.”

Larson sat for a few minutes afterward, wondering how he let his family get away from him. Actually, he knew very well how he did it. The same way he wound up being given the choice of resigning from the Minneapolis police force or being fired. He’d drunk himself off the force and out of the life of his wife and son. And he was still working to repair that damage. He wondered if he ever could.

He sighed and picked up his notebook from where it lay on his desk. Larson riffled through the pages where he’d jotted down information about the fire at Sarah Gordon’s house. He was about to start reading when he heard someone come up behind his desk.

“Working on a Saturday! Are you trying to get promoted to Chief of Detectives? If so, let me remind you that the Jameson police force doesn’t have that position. We’re too small.”

“Just doing my job, Cal,” Larson said. He swiveled around to face Cal Johnson, who was standing next to his own desk, right behind Larson’s.

“I waited for you, but you didn’t show. I thought we were going to run together this morning at the high school track,” Cal said. He half drained the bottle of water he held.

Cal’s skin, the color of old mahogany, glistened with sweat, evidence of his recent exercise. Cal wore a University of North Texas tee shirt, grey shorts, and well-broken-in Nikes. In the hand opposite the one holding the water, he grasped a ragged towel with which he mopped his forehead. His dark hair was plastered to his skull by perspiration.

“Sorry. I should have called you,” Larson said. “I had to come in and take a statement this morning. Someone set a fire in Dr. Sarah Gordon’s garage in the middle of the night.”

Cal’s eyebrows went up, which for him was a significant display of emotion. “Why would someone do that?”

“That’s the question I’m trying to answer.” Larson gave Cal the information he had thus far. “Now I’m getting ready to do what police work boils down to—knock on doors, run things up on the computer, nose around. Want to help?”

“I will if I’m needed,” Cal said. “Otherwise, I’d better get back to the house. Since it’s my day off, I promised Ruth I’d take care of a pretty significant honey-do list.” He took another swipe at his forehead with his towel, then finished the water he held. “Of course, if anything breaks and you really need some help, give me a call.”

Larson was already shaking his head. “Cal, you’ve already had one marriage end because your wife couldn’t stand your being gone so much. I’ll call you if I have to, but I’m not going to contribute to your second divorce.”

“It’ll happen or it won’t,” Cal said. “Ruth seems to be a little more understanding than Betty was.”

“That’s good, but don’t test her.” Larson was silent for a moment. “You’d better do your best to make your marriage work.”

Cal moved to Larson’s side and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know that’s a sensitive subject for you. How long’s it been?”

Larson didn’t have to think about it. “It’s been a little over a year since Annie left.”

“She still in Montana?”

“She and Billy. I call them about once a week.” He held up his cell phone. “I just finished talking with them.”

“Any chance you and your wife will get back together?” Cal asked.

“She hasn’t remarried, so that’s good. Even though she divorced me, I keep hoping if I stay sober she’ll agree to try it again.” Larson looked at the ceiling and counted. “I’ve got eleven months of sobriety now.”

“That’s great,” Cal said.

“Time will tell whether it’s good enough,” Larson said. “Meanwhile, I guess I’d better get to work. Getting fired from this job wouldn’t help my situation.”

* * *

After lunch, Kyle offered to follow Sarah home to make sure she arrived safely, but she declined with thanks. He’d persisted, but she finally convinced him that she’d rather be alone. “I’ll be safe. Don’t worry about me.”

“Well, call me if you need anything. I’ve talked with Tom Oliver, and he and his crew should be at your house when you arrive.”

When Sarah parked at the curb beside her house, a white van and a red pickup truck were already there. Three men in work clothes leaned on the van, talking and laughing together. As she exited her car, a middle-aged man in jeans and a tee shirt emerged from the pickup and walked toward her. He was clean-shaven. Brown hair in a brush cut. His face was pleasant but unremarkable. Average build. Sarah decided that an hour from now she’d be hard-pressed to describe him.

He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. “Tom Oliver.”

She took the proffered hand. “Sarah Gordon. Thank you for coming out on a weekend, Mr. Oliver,” she said.

“It’s Tom. And when people need us, they need us right then. Besides, Kyle’s pretty persuasive, and I owe him something,” he said. Then he pointed to the three men by the van. “Darrell, Carl, and Louie are ready to get started. Why don’t we see how much work we have to do?”

Sarah led Oliver inside. She was curious about the apparent debt Oliver owed Kyle, but decided not to pursue it right now. Instead, she briefly told him about the fire, where it had been located, and the fireman’s description of the damage as mainly cosmetic. “So, can you take care of this?” she said, waving her hand in the general direction of the soot-blackened wall in the kitchen.

“If the fire chief’s right and there’s no structural damage, we start by dealing with the residual smoke stains and soot. Ridding the house of most of the smell will take at least a day. We’ll shampoo the carpets, use fans and vacuum extractors, probably apply some air freshener, whatever it takes.”

“What will it take to get everything back like it was before the fire?”

“Just a little more work and expense. We’ll get rid of the smoke smell first. We may need to replace some of the carpets—I’ll have to see what they’re like after we shampoo them. We wash down the affected walls and treat them with a chemical that further neutralizes the smoke smell. Finally, we apply fresh paint. Of course, you’ll be trading the smell of smoke for the smell of paint, but that won’t last long, and pretty soon everything should be back like it was.”

No, the house will never again be like it was when Harry and I bought it, but at least I can remove the traces of this invasion. “What’s ‘pretty soon’?”

“Three days at the outside, probably less, certainly no more,” Oliver said.

“Do it.”

“Well, it’s going to cost—” he started to say.

“Never mind. I’ve already talked with my insurance agent. He told me that, beyond my deductible, everything is covered. Just do the best you can, and do it as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Oliver said. “Should we start now, or wait until you get stuff together to move out? I presume you’ll be staying with a friend or at a hotel.”

Sarah repeated what she’d said before—no one was going to drive her out of her home. But even while she was saying it, she wondered if she wasn’t being stubborn without any valid reason. Well, whatever her motivation, she was staying put.

Oliver frowned. “Suit yourself,” he said. “If there’s anything you need from the kitchen, I suggest you get it now. We’ll probably be working in there for a while.”

Sarah didn’t have much appetite when she and Kyle went to lunch, and she still wasn’t hungry, but maybe she should eat something anyway. She stood in front of the refrigerator, but nothing caught her fancy. After about five minutes, she picked up an orange and wandered into the living room.

She had just started to peel the fruit when her cell phone rang. Sarah put the orange on an end table before she answered.

“I just heard,” a familiar voice said. “Are you all right?”

Sarah felt a twinge of conscience because she hadn’t thought to call Connie Douglas, who was both a friend and colleague. Connie had been an ER nurse for a number of years. Her hair was white, and Sarah initially took Connie to be much older than her late-forties. Later Connie revealed that her hair color had turned from blonde to silver-gray almost twenty years ago. Maybe it was because the prematurely white hair gave her an air of wisdom, it could have been the common-sense advice Connie gave, but Sarah treasured their friendship. The nurse had been a rock during the days and weeks after Harry’s death, and Sarah regretted that she hadn’t contacted her friend with news of this latest event.

“I’m fine, Connie. I’m sorry I didn’t call you,” Sarah said. “I’m not sure I was ever in any danger. It was just a fire among some oily rags in my garage.”

Connie leaped right to the point Sarah had ignored last night. “You don’t ever keep stuff like that around. Do you think the fire was deliberately set?”

Sarah wished she could go back, hit the “reset” button, rewind the tape, do something to make all this go away. She didn’t want to talk about it. She wished it had never happened. But Connie’s question was cloaked in genuine concern, and she deserved a straight answer. “Yes, the fire chief told me that last night. I was at the police department this morning giving a detective my statement about the fire.”

“Did you tell them about the harassment that went on before this?”

“Connie, I’m still not thinking straight, I guess, but what harassment are you talking about?”

“Sarah, you told me about these things when they happened. You just haven’t put it together. Think back to the phone calls after midnight. And what about the time someone was sneaking around outside your house?”

Sarah realized Connie was right. Maybe the events her friend had mentioned were connected to the fire. She’d ignored these things, pushed them out of her mind when they happened. They’d started after the deaths of her husband and daughter, and she guessed she was still too much in shock at her loss to realize they might all be tied together. At that time Sarah had tried to put an innocent face on each incident, but now she wondered if maybe the fire last night was simply the latest gesture in a series aimed at her.

She had poured a glass of water while looking for something to eat and brought it to the living room with her. Now she reached for the glass that sat beside the unpeeled orange on the end table. Sarah took a couple of swallows, but the dryness didn’t leave her throat. “I guess you’re right. And I suppose that means I need to call Bill Larson back.”

“Well, I won’t keep you from making the call. But don’t forget to stay in touch,” Connie said.

Sarah promised to do that, and quickly ended her call. Then she took a couple of deep breaths, pulled out the card Bill Larson had given her, and punched in the number. “Bill . . . Detective Larson? This is Sarah Gordon again. A friend has reminded me of some other things that might be helpful in your investigation.” Some things that may mean there’s someone trying to frighten me . . . or worse.