The Society Page 14

  “Maybe someone put it in my breakfast. Everyone knows I have OJ and a jelly stick on the days when I operate. Maybe someone injected it in there.”

  “Maybe. You’re also going to have to explain how two unopened vials of the stuff got into your locked locker in the surgeons’ lounge.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “The locker was opened and there was the fentanyl, wrapped in a washcloth.”

  “The same person who poisoned me put them there. Can’t you see that? And, Sid, not that I have anything to hide, but you had no right to open my locker without my permission.”

  “I didn’t open it, Will. The police did. They got a warrant very quickly. Your locker and your office, and maybe your condo as well.”

  “Jesus. Sid, can’t you see that this is all a setup? Someone’s doing this to me. Someone who knows me pretty damn well or has made it their business to learn about me.”

  “Like the evil managed-care companies?”

  “Don’t be snide. I haven’t the strength or the inclination to deal with it right now.”

  “Okay, then, here’s the situation. I’m recommending to the executive committee that you be suspended from the staff immediately until this matter can be resolved. I actually have the authority to do this myself, but I want their support.”

  “Why don’t you just ask me to take a week’s leave or something? I promise I won’t work until I get clearance from the executive committee. Besides, don’t suspensions have to be reported to the Board of Registration?”

  “Any change in privileges gets reported. Will, you should use the time off to check yourself into a treatment center someplace. Get in touch with the physician-health people at the medical society and have them recommend a good one.”

  Will sensed himself about to blow. Fists balled, he forced his hands upward until the broad restraints cut into his wrists.

  “I didn’t take anything,” he said through nearly clenched teeth. “I have never taken anything, and I’m not going to any goddamn treatment center.”

  “Suit yourself,” Silverman said, his stubby fingers wrapped around the bed rail. “You’re going to have a day after you’re discharged from here to get your strength back, then twenty-four hours to wrap up your dictations and any other business here. After that, until you’re convicted or cleared of drug charges, I don’t want you near this hospital. I’m sorry, Will. I had hoped you’d be more forthcoming.” He turned and strode to the doorway, then turned back. “Our PR people are together right now working on damage control, but there’s no way we can keep this from becoming a media circus as soon as the press gets word of what happened. And believe me, they will hear about it. I’d suggest you notify Maxine so she can prepare your children. I would also give your malpractice carrier a call so they can keep on top of things.”

  Silverman left, and a few minutes later Anne Hajjar came in and removed Will’s restraints.

  “Dr. Millstein will be up in a little while,” she said.

  “I want to sign out.”

  “Please wait and speak with him.”

  “It won’t matter. He can discharge me or I’ll sign out AMA. I didn’t take any drugs and I want out of here.”

  “Dr. Grant, please. Just don’t do anything crazy until Ken gets here. We have a security guard right outside.”

  “I won’t cause any trouble. Anne, you’ve known me for years. Do you think I’m someone who would take drugs and then go into the operating room to do a complicated case?”

  “I only know what I hear,” she said. “I hope it turns out you didn’t, but I admit it sounds like you did. By the way, your wife called from the lobby. She’s on her way up.”

  It’s ex-wife, Will wanted to say, but didn’t bother.

  Maxine, stylishly dressed as always, today in a floral print silk blouse, navy blazer, and gray slacks, knocked on the doorway and nodded gravely to the nurse as they passed.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “Physically I’m fine. How’d you know I was here?”

  “Gordon called and told me, then a few minutes after that, Karen Millstein called.”

  “I could win the Nobel Prize and news wouldn’t travel any faster.”

  “In case you don’t know it, you didn’t win the Nobel Prize.”

  “I didn’t take any drugs, either.”

  “Gordon said it was in your blood and urine.”

  “I didn’t take any drugs.”

  Will wondered how many times he would say the phrase over the hours, days, and weeks ahead.

  “I thought you’d been acting strange lately.”

  “You came to tell me I’ve been acting strange?”

  “I came to see if you’re all right.”

  “I’m not all right. I didn’t take any fentanyl and nobody believes that.”

  “You passed out in the operating room and then stopped breathing and then had the drug in your blood and urine. What are people supposed to think?”

  “I didn’t take any drugs. Sid Silverman was just here. I’m about to be suspended from the staff.”

  “What else could they do?”

  “He says the media is going to be all over this. We’ve got to try our best to protect the kids. Maybe you should go away for a week until the firestorm blows past.”

  “Maybe we will. Listen, Will, Mark and I talked and decided that until this business is resolved, I’m going to limit your visitation with the twins—no visits for the next week, then once a week in the playroom or yard at our place, three hours maximum, supervised. That is, provided your psychiatrist says it’s safe.”

  “I don’t see a psychiatrist.”

  “You will now.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You can’t do that.”

  “Can and will. Don’t make me go to court for a restraining order. Besides, if our situations were reversed, you know you’d do the same thing.”

  Will sank back and stared at the ceiling. This wasn’t the time or place to battle Maxine, especially when he was totally outgunned. He lived for his medical practice and time with his children. Now, in a matter of just a few hours, he had lost both.

  Who? Why? How?

  For the first time, the questions took center stage in his mind.

  Was the managed-care killer somehow involved? If so, to what end? He was supposed to be the ally of the movement. Why would they want to destroy him?

  “Will? Are you listening to me? I asked if you thought you might be sued for this.”

  “How should I know?” he replied, still staring overhead. “If I’m sued, I’m sued. That’s why I have malpractice.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Maxine said, “but if you’re sued for this, you don’t have malpractice. Have you forgotten?”

  The clause! In fact, he had forgotten. In an effort to stem the bleeding from malpractice premiums that were going through the roof, Fredrickston Surgical Associates had decided to switch their coverage to PSF—Physicians Security Fund—a small physician-owned company based in Indiana. Among several clauses designed to keep premiums down was one omitting coverage for any incident involving the use of alcohol or other mind-altering drugs. It was not surprising that Maxine knew the details of his malpractice insurance better than he did. She was a businesswoman, and an avaricious one at that. If he were wiped out by a claim, which as of this moment seemed exceedingly possible, her finances would take a significant hit.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just can’t get worked up about that right now.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Yes, I suspect it’s true.”

  “Damn you, Will. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

  Wolf Hollow Condominiums was a well-maintained, middle-class development situated a few miles outside the city. Will’s unit, a two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath town house, was in the block farthest from the clubhouse and outdoor pool, thus bringing its cost down from absolutely prohibitive for him to merely unaffordable. Still, the kids enjo
yed the pool and the game room, and had actually made some friends there. It would be hard to one day have to tell them that the place had become the property of Kurt Goshtigian or his heirs.

  It was nearly eight when Will arrived home, having signed out against medical advice. Ken Millstein simply refused to authorize an early discharge for someone who had spent a large portion of the day on a vent due to a massive drug overdose and respiratory arrest. If nothing else, he insisted on a psych evaluation to determine whether or not Will was a danger to himself or anyone else. Ultimately, Will relented, and a colorless shrink named Yvonne Sands took more than an hour to determine that he was, in fact, mentally able to go home. Still, Millstein made him sign the AMA papers.

  As Sid Silverman had predicted, the executive committee voted unanimously to suspend him from the hospital staff until his situation could be resolved. It seemed like only a matter of time before the Board of Registration suspended him, as well. Was there any way his disability insurance would pay anything without insisting he admit that he was an addict? Maybe he could claim a severe, paralytic depression and simply crawl into bed for a year or two. At the moment, such a diagnosis would not be stretching the truth very far. Will pulled into his parking space, grateful that no reporters or cameramen were lurking about, but he knew it was just a matter of time before they descended on 10-108 Wolf Hollow Drive, hungering for any ort of information about him and his life.

  Compared to the house in Ashford, the condo was quite modest. Even so, Will liked the hardwood floors and the view of the woods out back, and bit by bit, as the bookshelves filled and art—framed prints or the twins’ masterpieces—began to fill the walls, the place had become home. There was no evidence inside that the police had been there yet. Feeling numb and detached from his life, Will brewed a pot of tea, then sank onto the couch in the small den.

  Who? Why? How? After a few minutes, the three burning questions were joined by a fourth: What now? He wanted to fight back—needed to fight back—but he knew things were only going to get worse. A lawyer? Probably that was the place to begin. He really didn’t know any who handled this sort of thing. Thanks to the no-drug clause, there was no chance his malpractice company would provide one, and the incompetent weasel who had handled his divorce would probably succeed in getting him the gas chamber. What sort of retainers did lawyers charge these days, anyhow? At a recent Society meeting he had heard of one insisting on $50,000 up front. Was that possible?

  The divorce and ongoing settlement payments had hit his finances hard, as had increasingly restrictive managed-care policies. He had maybe ten thousand in the bank, fifty or so in his retirement fund, and perhaps thirty that he could wring out of the condo. Not much to show for seven years in surgical practice. Jim Katz knew a lot of well-placed people. Maybe he or one of the other two partners could recommend someone.

  Will sipped at his tea and stared across at the dark screen of the TV.

  Shit. What in the hell had just happened to his life?

  The doorbell had rung several times before he became aware of it. Let the circus begin, he thought. The guest bathroom overlooked the parking lot. Rather than answer the door, he went upstairs, carefully opened that bathroom window, and peered down. Patty Moriarity, alone, paced back and forth across the front stoop. Faced with the vast emptiness of his condo and, in fact, his world, a visit even from her was welcome.

  “I’ll be right there,” he called down.

  “The Fredrickston PD called and told us what happened,” she said when he opened the door. “I checked with the ICU at the hospital and they told me you were about to sign yourself out. So I decided to see if I could catch up with you here.”

  He motioned her into the living room. She was wearing black jeans and the leather jacket he had now come to associate with her, and aside from maybe a little lipstick, wore no makeup. There was no gun that he could see, but he imagined a shoulder holster or a pistol strapped to her ankle.

  “It’s locked in the car,” she said before he could ask.

  “Just wondered.”

  Keeping her jacket on, she settled in at one end of the burgundy sofa Gordo had given him for his then-new place, while he took the recliner the people at the Open Hearth had chipped in to buy for him.

  “So,” she said, “it sounds like you’ve had a time of it since we last spoke.”

  “Calling it the day from hell wouldn’t do it justice.”

  “I haven’t spoken to the DA yet, but the FPD guys tell me there’s a chance you’ll be arrested soon for the drugs they found in your locker. I suppose there’s a chance the DA could go for an attempted-manslaughter charge if the guy makes it, and maybe manslaughter if he doesn’t.”

  “That’s great, just great. Sergeant Moriarity, I didn’t take any drugs. Someone did this to me.”

  “The killer?”

  “I have no idea. Why would he do something like that? He said I was going to be his buddy from now on—his spokesman.”

  “You don’t take drugs of any kind?”

  “I smoked dope from time to time in college and med school. That’s it. Now I don’t even take Tylenol.”

  “Any idea how the drug got into you?”

  “If I hadn’t passed out the way I did, I’d blame someone in the lab putting it in my specimens. I’m superstitious and I have a few rituals that a lot of people know about. Maybe someone put the drug in my juice at breakfast, or the doughnut I like to eat.”

  “What kind is that?”

  Will felt color rush to his cheeks.

  “Jelly stick.”

  “I’m a glazed-cruller person myself, but those Krispy Kremes are starting to win me over. Dr. Grant, the people in your hospital have a great deal of respect for you. They’ve told me you’re one of the best. Same goes for the people at the Open Hearth. I just came from speaking with Benois Beane. You’re like a god to some of them.”

  “That’s nice to hear. So you believe me about the drugs?”

  “At the moment I don’t know what to believe. You see, everyone I talked to says you’re a great surgeon and a terrific person but you work too hard—longer hours than anyone they’ve ever known. A couple of them don’t know how you do it. Now, all of a sudden, a serial murderer is calling you on your private line, you almost kill a man when you pass out in the operating room, and you’re found to be loaded with narcotics. Don’t you think it seems possible, even likely, that you are coming apart from all the hours you spend working?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. What are you going to do now?”

  “Find a lawyer, I guess. I don’t intend to hand over my life without a goddamn good fight.”

  The words were there, but they were belied by the dazed, vulnerable look in his eyes.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she said.

  “You just don’t expect this kind of stuff when you sign up.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s all there in the fine print that nobody ever reads.”

  For a time, Patty gazed across the room at nothing in particular. How much she wanted to believe him—that he didn’t create the mysterious phone call as a means of setting up a public platform for his views on managed care; that he didn’t accidentally overdose on a powerful narcotic; that he would never even consider killing anyone. She wanted to believe him because, at the moment, she needed him. Her first major case, and she was being shoved out the door. Unless she came up with something, and quick, she would be back to chasing down shoplifters full-time.

  What would Tommy Moriarity think if he knew she was contemplating joining forces with their chief suspect in a series of vicious murders? . . . What were all those women thinking the moment they opened the door to let in charming, handsome, vulnerable Ted Bundy? . . . How much denial was she in about her attraction to this man?

  “Dr. Grant,” she suddenly heard herself saying, “I need your help.”

  “At the moment I can’t believe anyone needs my help f
or anything,” he said.

  “Your career is on the line if you can’t prove you’re innocent of taking any drugs. Well, mine is on the line unless I get a break in this managed-care case, and soon. The truth is, it’s the first one of any consequence that I’ve gotten since I joined the force. A lot of people, including your friend Brasco, think that the only reason I’m still on the case is because my father is second in command of the state police.”

  “How can I help?” Will asked.

  “First, I want permission to tap your phones—here, your cell, even the one in your office.”

  “If you think you need to.”

  “For a while you won’t have much privacy.”

  “When the media gets ahold of what happened this morning, I don’t suspect I’ll have much privacy anyway. Besides, if you’ve been investigating my life you must have learned that outside the hospital, my kids, and the soup kitchen, I don’t really have one. It’s been months since my last date.”

  Good!

  “I’ll give you my home number and my cell. If the killer calls, day or night, I need you to contact me immediately. If you have any ideas about who could be doing this or why, I need you to call me. If you can connect anyone to this drug business, anyone at all, that’s important, too. I’ll even take any theories that might come to you.”

  “I suppose I could do that.”

  “One last thing. I would really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone we have this arrangement.”

  “I wondered about that, given that I’m still a suspect.”

  “To Brasco you are, but I’ve pretty much decided to believe you—at least for the moment.”

  As Patty spoke the words, the reality of what she was doing hit.

  Unprofessional, amateurish, and downright dangerous, her father would say. You don’t go into a man’s home without another officer nearby, if not right in the room with you—especially when that man is a suspect in your murder investigation. Jesus, girl, what were you thinking?

  “I . . . I’ve got to go,” she said, standing abruptly. “Here are forms for the wiretaps. Sign them in front of a notary and get them to me at the address on my card. I’ll let myself out.”