She arrived at the office just before seven thirty and wasn’t surprised to find Maureen Crowley already there. Maureen was the most conscientious secretary they had. Beyond that, she had a naturally keen mind and could handle assignments without constantly asking for direction. Katie stopped at her desk. “Maureen, I’ve got a job. Could you come in when you have a minute?”
The girl got up quickly. She had a narrow-waisted, graceful young body. The green sweater she was wearing accentuated the vivid green of her eyes. “How about now, Katie? Want coffee?”
“Great,” Katie replied, then added, “but no ham on rye—at least, not yet.”
Maureen looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry I said that yesterday. You, of all people, are not in a rut.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Katie went into her office, hung up her coat and settled down with the pad she’d used at Westlake Hospital.
Maureen brought in the coffee, pulled up a chair and waited silently, her steno book on her lap.
“Here’s the problem,” Katie said slowly. “We’re not satisfied that the Vangie Lewis death is a suicide. Yesterday I talked with her doctors, Dr. Highley and Dr. Fukhito, at Westlake Hospital.”
She heard a sharp intake of breath and looked up quickly. The girl’s face had gone dead white. As Katie watched, two bright spots darkened her cheekbones.
“Maureen, is anything the matter?”
“No. No. I’m sorry.”
“Did I say anything to startle you?”
“No. Really.”
“All right.” Unconvinced, Katie looked back at her pad. “As far as we know, Dr. Fukhito, the psychiatrist at Westlake, was the last person to see Vangie Lewis alive. I want to find out as much as I can about him as fast as possible. Check the Valley County Medical Society and the AMA. I’ve heard he does volunteer work at Valley Pines Hospital. Maybe you can learn something there. Emphasize the confidentiality, but find out where he came from, where he went to school, other hospitals he’s been connected with, his personal background: whatever you can get.”
“You don’t want me to talk to anyone at Westlake Hospital?”
“Good heavens, no. I don’t want anyone there to have any idea we’re checking on Dr. Fukhito.”
For some reason the younger woman seemed relieved. “I’ll get right on it, Katie.”
“It’s not really fair to have you come in early to do other work and then throw a job at you. Good old Valley County isn’t into overtime. We both know Valley County isn’t into overtime. We both know that.”
Maureen shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. The more I do in this office, the more I like it. Who knows? I may go for a law degree myself, but that means four years of college and three years of law school.”
“You’d be a good lawyer,” Katie said, meaning it. “I’m surprised you didn’t go to college.”
“I was insane enough to get engaged the summer I finished high school. My folks persuaded me to take the secretarial course before I got married so at least I’d have some kind of skill. How right they were. The engagement didn’t stand the wait.”
“Why didn’t you start college last September instead of coming to work?” Katie asked.
The girl’s face became brooding. Katie thought how unhappy she looked and decided that Maureen must have been pretty hurt about the breakup.
Not quite looking at Katie, Maureen said, “I was feeling restless and didn’t want to settle down to being a schoolgirl. It was a good decision.”
She went out of the room. The telephone rang. It was Richard. His voice was guarded. “Katie, I’ve just been talking to Dave Broad, the head of prenatal research at Mt. Sinai. On a hunch, I sent the fetus Vangie Lewis was carrying over to him. Katie, my hunch was right. Vangie was not pregnant with Chris Lewis’ child. The baby I took from her womb has distinctly Oriental characteristics!”
♦30♦
Edgar Highley stared at Katie DeMaio as she stood with that shoe in her hand, holding it out to him. Was she mocking him? No. She believed what she was saying, that the shoe had had some sentimental memory for Edna.
He had to have that shoe. If only she didn’t talk about it to the Medical Examiner or the detectives. Suppose she decided to show it to them? Gertrude Fitzgerald might recognize it. She’d been at the desk many times when Vangie came in. He’d heard Edna joke with her about Vangie’s glass slippers.
Katie put the shoe back, closed the drawer and walked out of the bedroom, the jewelry box tucked under her arm. He followed her, desperate to hear what she would say. But she simply handed the jewelry box to the detective. “The ring and pin are here, Charley,” she said. “I guess that shoots any possibility of burglary. I didn’t go through the bureau or closet.”
“It doesn’t matter. If Richard suspects wrongful death, we’ll search this place with a fine-tooth comb in the morning.”
There was a staccato rap at the door, and Katie opened it to admit two men carrying a stretcher.
Edgar Highley walked back to Gertrude. She had drunk the water in the glass Katie had given her. “I’ll get you more water, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” he said quietly. He glanced over his shoulder. The others all had their backs to him, as they watched the attendants prepare to lift the body. It was his chance. He had to risk taking the shoe. As long as Katie hadn’t mentioned it immediately, it was unlikely she’d bring it up now.
He walked rapidly to the bathroom, turned on the tap and slipped across the hall to the bedroom. Using his handkerchief to avoid fingerprints, he opened the night-table drawer. He was just reaching for the shoe when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Quickly he pushed the drawer shut, stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket and was standing at the door of the bedroom when the footsteps stopped.
Willing himself to appear calm, he turned. Richard Carroll, the Medical Examiner, was standing in the foyer between the bedroom and the bathroom. His eyes were questioning. “Doctor,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Edna Burns.” His voice was cold.
“Certainly.” Then, in what he hoped was a casual tone, he added, “I have just been standing here thinking of Miss Burns. What a shame her life was so wasted.”
“Wasted?” Richard’s voice was sharply questioning.
“Yes. She actually had a good mathematical mind. In this computer age Edna might have used that talent to make something of herself. Instead, she became an overweight, gossiping alcoholic. If that seems harsh, I say it with real regret. I was fond of Edna, and quite frankly I shall miss her. Excuse me. I’m letting the water run. I want to give Mrs. Fitzgerald a glass of cold water. Poor woman, she’s terribly distressed.”
Dr. Carroll stood aside to let him pass. Had his criticism of Edna distracted the Medical Examiner from wondering what he was doing in Edna’s room?
He rinsed the glass, filled it and brought it to Gertrude. The attendants had left with the body, and Katie DeMaio was not in the room.
“Has Mrs. DeMaio left?” he asked the detective.
“No. She’s talking to the super’s wife. She’ll be right back.”
He did not want to leave himself until he was sure that Katie did not talk about the shoe in front of Gertrude. But when she came back a few minutes later, she did not mention it.
They left the apartment together. The local police would keep it under surveillance until the official search was completed.
Deliberately he walked with Katie to her car, but then the Medical Examiner joined them. “Let’s have coffee, Katie,” he said. “You know where the Golden Valley diner is, don’t you?”
The Medical Examiner waited until she was in the car and had started to pull out before he said, “Good night, Dr. Highley” and abruptly left.
As he drove home, Edgar Highley decided there was a personal relationship of some sort between Katie DeMaio and Richard Carroll. When Katie bled to death, Richard Carroll would be both professionally and emotionally interested in the cause of death. He would have to be very, very careful.
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There was hostility in Carroll’s attitude toward him. But Carroll had no reason to be hostile to him. Should he have gone over to Edna’s body? But what would have been the point? He should not have pushed her so hard. Should he have robbed her? That had been his original intention. If he had, he would have found the shoe last night.
But Edna had talked. Edna had told Gertrude that he’d been at her apartment. Edna might even have made it sound more frequent, more important. Gertrude had told Katie that he knew where the pitiful jewelry was kept. If they decided Edna had been murdered, would they tie the murder to Edna’s job at the hospital? What else had Edna told people?
The thought haunted him as he drove home.
Katie was the key. Katie DeMaio. With her safely out of the way there was no evidence to tie him to Vangie’s death—or Edna’s. The office files were in perfect order. The current patients could bear the most minute scrutiny.
He turned into his driveway, drove into the garage, entered the house. The lamb chops were on the plate, cold and edged with grease; the asparagus had wilted, the salad was limp and warm. He would reheat the food in the microwave oven, prepare a fresh salad. In a few minutes the table would look as it had before the phone call.
As he once again prepared the food, he found himself becoming calm. He was so near to being safe. And soon it would be possible to share his genius with the world. He already had his success. He could prove it beyond doubt. Someday he would be able to proclaim it. Not yet, but someday. And he wouldn’t be like that braggart who claimed to have successfully cloned but refused to offer even a shred of proof. He had accurate records, scientific documentation, pictures, X-rays, the step-by-step, day-by-day accounts of all the problems that had arisen and how he had dealt with them. All in the files in his secret safe.
When the proper time came he would burn the files about the failures and claim the recognition that was due him. By then there would surely be more triumphs.
Nothing must stand in his way. Vangie had nearly spoiled everything. Suppose he had not met her just as she came out of Fukhito’s office? Suppose she hadn’t told him about her decision to consult Emmet Salem?
Happenstance. Luck. Call it what you will.
But it had also been happenstance that sent Katie DeMaio to the window just as he left with Vangie’s body. And exquisite irony that Katie had come to him in the first place.
Once again he sat down at the table. With intense satisfaction he saw that the dinner looked as appetizing, as delicious as when he’d first prepared it. The watercress was crisp and fresh; the chops bubbling; the asparagus piping hot under a delicate hollandaise. He poured wine into a thin goblet, admiring the delicate satiny feel of the crystal as he picked it up. The wine had the hearty Burgundy flavor he’d been anticipating.
He ate slowly. As always, food restored his sense of well-being. He would do what he must, and then he’d be safe.
Tomorrow was Thursday. The Newsmaker article would be on the stands. It would enhance his social as well as his medical prestige.
The fact that he was a widower lent him a specific appeal. He knew how his patients talked. “Dr. Highley is so brilliant. He’s so distinguished. He has a beautiful home in Parkwood.”
After Winifred’s death, he had allowed his connections with her friends to lapse. There was too much hostility there. That cousin of hers kept making insinuations. He knew it. That was why these three years he hadn’t bothered with another woman. Not that he found solitude a sacrifice. His work was all-absorbing, all-satisfying. The time dedicated to it had been rewarded. His worst professional critics admitted that he was a good doctor, that the hospital was magnificently equipped, that the Westlake Maternity Concept was being copied by other physicians.
“My patients are not allowed to drink or smoke during their pregnancies,” he had told the Newsmaker interviewer. “They are required to follow a specific diet. Many so-called barren women would have the babies they want if they would show the same dedication as athletes in training. Many of the long-range health problems suffered today would have been prevented entirely if mothers had not been eating the wrong food, taking the wrong medication. We have had the visible example of what Thalidomide did to scores of unfortunate victims. We recognize that a mother on drugs may produce an infant addict; an alcoholic mother will often be delivered of a retarded, undersized, emotionally disturbed child. But what of the many problems that we consider simply the lot of man . . . Bronchitis, dyslexia, hyperactivity, asthma, hearing and sight impairment? I believe that the place to eliminate these is not in the laboratory, but in the womb. I will not accept a patient who will not cooperate with my methods. I can show you dozens of women I have treated with a history of several miscarriages who now have children. Many more could experience that same joy, if they were willing to change their habits, particularly their eating and drinking habits. Many others would conceive and bear a child if their emotions were not so disturbed that in effect they are wearing mental contraceptives far more efficient than any device for sale in the drugstore. This is the reason, the basis of the Westlake Maternity Concept.”
The Newsmaker reporter had been impressed. But her next question was a loaded one. “Doctor, isn’t it a fact that you have been criticized for the exorbitant fees you charge?”
“Exorbitant is your word. My fees, aside from rather spartan living expenses, are spent to develop the hospital and to pursue prenatal study.”
“Doctor, isn’t it a fact that a large percentage of your cases have been women who miscarried several times under your care, even after following your schedule rigidly—and paying you ten thousand dollars, plus all hospital and lab expenses?”
“It would be insanity for me to claim that I could bring every difficult pregnancy to term. Yes. There have been cases where the desired pregnancy was begun, but spontaneously aborted. After several of these occurrences, I suggest that my patient adopt a child and help to arrange a suitable adoption.”
“For a fee.”
“Young woman, I assume you are being paid to interview me. Why don’t you use your time for volunteer work?”
It had been foolish to attack the reporter like that. Foolish to risk animosity, foolish to give her any reason to discredit him, to delve too deeply into his background. He’d told her that he’d been obstetrical chief in Liverpool before his marriage to Winifred. But of course he hadn’t discussed Christ Hospital in Devon.
The interviewer’s next question had been meant to entrap him.
“Doctor, you perform abortions, do you not?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Isn’t that incongruous for an obstetrician? To try to save one fetus and to eliminate another?”
“I refer to the womb as a cradle. I despise abortion. And I deplore the grief I witness when women come to me who have no hope of conceiving because they have had abortions and their wombs have been pierced by stupid, blundering, careless doctors. I think everyone—and I include my colleagues—would be astounded to learn how many women have denied themselves any hope of motherhood because they decided to defer that motherhood by abortion. It is my wish that all women carry their babies to healthy term. For those who do not want to, at least I can make sure that when they eventually want a child, they will still be able to have one.”
That point had been well received. The reporter’s attitude had changed.
He finished eating. Now he leaned back in the chair and poured more wine into his glass. He was feeling expansive, comfortable. The laws were changing. In a few years he’d be able to announce his genius without fear of prosecution. Vangie Lewis, Edna Burns, Winifred, Claire . . . they’d be unrelated statistics. The trail would be cold.
He studied the wine as he drank, refilled his glass and drank again. He was tired. Tomorrow morning he had a cesarean section scheduled—another difficult case that would add to his reputation. It had been a difficult pregnancy, but the fetus had a strong heartbeat; it should be delivered safely. The mothe
r was a member of the socially prominent Payne family. The father, Delano Aldrich, was an officer of the Rockefeller Foundation. This was the sort of family whose championship would make the difference if the Devon scandal were ever to surface again.
Only one obstacle left. He had brought Katie DeMaio’s file home from the office. He would begin now to prepare the substitute file that he would show to the police after her death.
Instead of the history she’d given him of prolonged periods of bleeding over the past year, he would write, “Patient complains of frequent and spontaneous hemorrhaging, unrelated to monthly cycles.” Instead of sponginess of uterine walls, probably familial, a condition that would be remedied indefinitely by a simple D-and-C, he would note findings of vascular breakdown. Instead of a slightly low hemoglobin he would indicate that the hemoglobin was chronically in the danger zone.
He went into the library. The file marked KATHLEEN DEMAIO taken from the office was on top of his desk. From the drawer he extracted a new file and put Katie’s name on it. For half an hour he worked steadily, consulting the office file for information on her previous medical history. Finally he was finished. He would bring the revised file with him to the hospital. He added several paragraphs to the file he had taken from the office, the one he would put in the wall safe when completed.
Patient was in minor automobile accident on Monday night, February 15. At 2:00 A.M. patient, in sedated condition, observed from the window of her room the transferral of the remains of Vangie Lewis by this physician. Patient still does not understand that what she observed was a true event rather than an hallucination. Patient is slightly traumatized by accident, and persistent hemorrhaging. Inevitably she will be able to achieve clear recollection of what she observed and for this reason cannot be permitted to remain as a threat to this physician.
Patient received blood transfusion on Monday night in emergency room of hospital. This physician prescribed second transfusion on pretense of preparation for Saturday surgery. This physician also administered anticoagulant medication, cumadin pills to be taken on regular basis until Friday night.