Bad Medicine (5 page)

But that wasn't Molly's problem anymore. She didn't have to save anybody else tonight. She just had to identify them when they were dead.

She had to identify them and tell their frantic, wild-eyed mothers that they weren't coming home again.

* * *

Word always got out on the street fast when there was a disaster. Word got out at record speed that morning. By the time Molly made it back from seeing Tyrell's mother out the door, the hall was awash in city bigwigs.

"Get them
outa
here," Lance Frost groused, turning surly as he approached the second half of the double shift he'd volunteered to pull.

Molly was just about to ask Lance for the same favor.

The Grace Emergency Department was set up like half a six-spoked wheel, with three halls of fifteen rooms each stretching away at equal angles from the central secretarial station. This helped centralize the paperwork and keep the hallways in contact. It also tended to collect staff around the station as if it were magnetized, since it was also where the gossip tended to hover, where the bitching could be conducted at its most concentrated. It was where the triage and the charge nurse tended to confer, so that most questions were answered there.

Especially for the benefit of staff, police, or politicians, all of whom had begun to gather like barely disguised vultures. By the time she'd made it halfway down the hallway to dispose of Tyrell's paperwork so she could pick Pearl's up again, Molly had already spotted three senior police officials, two aldermen, and the head of Catholic Charities. At least Sasha had been able to keep the press blocked out in the driveway.

"Well, if it isn't Molly Malone."

Stunned, Molly turned around. For a minute she wasn't sure whether in all the chaos she hadn't made that phone call asking for help after all. "Gene, what are you doing here?" she asked, truly pleased.

Gene Stavrakos was probably the only person in the room shorter than Molly. Round, pink-cheeked, and tonsured like a woolly monk, he looked much more like Poppin Fresh than Freud. He always smelled like pipe smoke, and his eyes sparkled with a well-being that was infectious, which, Molly decided, was a much more important requirement for a psychiatrist.

Clad in the kind of rumpled clothing that betrayed a sudden call in the middle of the night, Gene shrugged, his smile faltering. "Ettie Johnson. Pearl's mother. She called me first."

Molly thought back to the prescriptions, couldn't come up with Gene's name on any of them. "You saw her?"

He shook his head. "I see Ettie. She's been a clinic patient for years, bipolar disorder. Is she here?"

"I'll be heading in to talk to her in a minute. Wanna help?"

Gene's smile was a shade sadder. "Yeah. She's been kind of fragile lately. This isn't going to help at all. She thought Pearl had made it. Survived the city with her degree and her position and all."

"Well, I'd keep a real close eye on any lawyers you know right now. They seem to be trying to take over as highest risk group."

"You're kidding. Suicide?"

Molly nodded. "I think you should look into it."

Gene didn't seem to know quite how to take that. But then, neither did Molly. "Me?" he said. "Why?"

"Okay, then, I will. A good thesis for my master's in nursing."

"You're not getting a master's in nursing."

"It's on my list of things to do."

"How 'bout
you?"
he asked. "Isn't it time for a twenty-thousand-mile checkup?"

Molly turned back to him. Smiled, knowing she didn't look appreciably happier than he did. "I was just thinking that very thing. We're losing more kids than we are lawyers."

"You puking again?"

"When I'm not sweating."

He nodded briskly, as if they were talking about somebody else's symptoms. Someone else's stress. "Summer's always the worst. You know that. You should have seen me weeks ago."

"You're right, I should have. I've been getting so claustrophobic lately I have to park on the top level of the garage every time I come in to work, and that's a bitch when it rains. Will next week do?"

"If it won't, you know where to find me."

If they hadn't been standing in the work lane, Molly would have kissed him right on the top of his shiny head. Gene had been listening to her for twenty years, long before the clinical world had caught up with them and given a name to the nightmares and depressions and addictions Molly brought home with her from Vietnam. By the time the government came up with the tag of Post Traumatic Distress Syndrome, Molly was mostly through it.

Once identified and examined, it had weakened. Once recognized, it had become less frightening. An easily described series of reactions to a year of trauma a lifetime away. Most times Molly thought of it as a snake, lying in the sun. Quickly spotted, carefully avoided. Well managed when confronted.

Except for the summers, when the children died. Except when Molly lost not only a lawsuit but her job and ended up wading around in the carnage of a city to stay afloat. Except when it was too hot and her back hurt and she didn't sleep.

Except when she stood with her hands full of shit and she heard a voice that betrayed how big that pile she held was about to get. Molly looked over Gene's shoulder and sighed.

"If you'd sit with Ettie," she told him, her attention already on her next problem, "we'll be there in a minute."

Gene followed her line of sight and damn near flinched. The ruckus at the door had focused itself into one six-foot hurricane that was headed straight Molly's way.

"Okay," he said, understanding perfectly. "See you later."

And then, with one more pat to the arm for support, he got out of the way before he could be literally run over by the next contestant to sign in on Molly's never-ending night.

"Why the
hell
didn't you call me?" her problem demanded in full mezzo-soprano rage from the other end
of
the hall.

A tall woman with almond-shaped eyes and skin the color of glossy deep chocolate, she had high cheekbones and corn-rowed hair that had been scraped away from her face and twisted into an impossibly elegant coiffure. Even at one in the morning in an emergency department, she swept down the hall with the kind of haughty posture that transformed the trendy, tailored khaki linen outfit she wore into model's attire.

Molly's boss.

Suddenly Molly yearned for another trip to the bathroom.

Winnie was furious. And when Winnie was furious, no one within a twelve-mile radius was safe.

Winnie's official name was Dr. Jemimah Winnifred Sweet Harrison, Chief Medical Examiner of the City of St. Louis. No one, to Molly's knowledge, however, had ever had the guts to call the Chief ME Jemimah. At least not to her face.

Having survived med school when being a woman had been even more of a detriment than being black, Winnie had the kind of personality often referred to as FDS, or Female Doc Syndrome. Aggressive, angry, and full of attitude. Those less secure also called it Friggin' Dyke Style.

Winnie had also been head of her class at Georgetown, senior surgical and pathology resident at Washington U., and was board certified in forensic pathology, neuropathology, and pediatric pathology. Not someone to screw around with on her best days. Today, Molly knew, was not going to be one of her best days. She was scything through the crowd around the desk like a fullback hitting the line of scrimmage.

"I asked you a question," Winnie snapped, eyes hard and unforgiving, posture threatening as hell.

All activity on the work lane paused in equal parts awe and discomfort. Everybody knew about Winnie. No one at the hospital had actually met her. Winnie never darkened the doors of emergency departments. She never attended death scenes. She never ventured from the antiseptic environs of her morgue for anything but the odd press conference at the medical examiner's office, attendance at any of the many criminal trials in and around town that might need her professional opinion, or the environs of city hall when funding questions were being raised.

Which was why she was here tonight. Pearl Johnson had not only been a political ally. She had been Winnie's best friend. It was the only thing that kept Molly planted squarely in Winnie's path, ready for her fury. Pearl had been the only person in Molly's experience who had made Winnie laugh.

"I had to clear the homicide of an eight-year-old first," Molly answered as quietly as she could. "I was just about to call you."

Winnie stalked right up to her. Since Winnie was wearing her three-inch heels tonight, she ended up staring straight down at Molly as if her investigator were a tardy preschooler. "And
this
case?" she snarled.

Molly never flinched. "I'm sorry, Winnie. It looks like a suicide."

If Molly had been talking about any other client in public, Winnie would have reminded her with acerbic precision that this was not a conclusion Molly was qualified to reach. In any other situation, Molly wouldn't have put it that way, at least not to Winnie. But there were more city hall hangers-on showing up by the minute just for the purpose of gloating, and Molly didn't have time to play the games.

Winnie somehow managed to raise herself another good two inches. Molly saw her nostrils flare and was probably the only person in the place who knew how hard her boss was struggling for control. "Who says?" Winnie demanded, her voice suddenly hushed. The kind of hush that made people flinch.

"Me. There's a note." Molly walked down the hall, hoping the ME would follow. "Do you want to talk about it in the lounge?"

Winnie grabbed her. "No, I don't want to talk about it in the goddamn lounge! You talk to me about it here!"

"You know the difference between a lawyer and a dead skunk on the road?" somebody asked a little farther down the hall, obviously having heard that they'd made their lawyer hat trick after all. "There are skid marks in front of the skunk."

Molly hoped like hell Winnie didn't hear it. They both had bigger things to worry about. Winnie was so intent on intimidating Molly that she hadn't noticed one of her political foes sidling up behind her. Molly had, though.

Risking Winnie's wrath, she deliberately made a half turn away from her boss and smiled. The man standing by the door to Pearl's room smiled back.

"It was good of you to come out tonight, Mr. Maguire," Molly said evenly.

Winnie whipped around so fast she created eddies in the air. It was the night for nervous reactions, and Alderman Tim Maguire didn't disappoint Molly in the least. A florid, round-faced man with a halfhearted blond mustache and eyes like a Boston terrier's, he flashed the kind of smile that made Molly think of a third-rate salesman seeing his commission slide down the drain. He was also sweating like a pig.

But then, Molly couldn't really blame him. It was about a hundred degrees outside, and his greatest ally on the City Board of Aldermen was lying in that room.

"I'm so very sorry, Dr. Harrison," he greeted them, jerking to an uncertain start and approaching. "I know you two were close. Does anyone know...?"

"No," Winnie answered him, her glare enough to make the top of his head steam up. "They don't. Who called you?"

"Why, the mayor himself. He wanted to make sure that everything was... well, you know... afforded the family."

He wanted to make sure the body was shoved well to the side of the road before morning.

Even so, it amused Molly that of all people, Mayor Williamson had sent out somebody he really didn't like to do his work. If it hadn't been Pearl Johnson lying in that room, Molly might not have minded at all watching how this whole thing was going to fall out.

"I'll take care of the family," Winnie assured him baldly.

Timothy Maguire was left standing in an ineffectual sweat in the middle of the hall as Winnie spun away from him and stalked toward the room in question.

Molly had no choice but to follow. She also had a few more things she needed to clear up with her boss.

"Lorenzo, transport's coming for Tyrell," she informed her tech, who was doing his best to look invisible. "Let me know the minute they get here. I'll be..."

She gave a vague motion toward the door that was even now shushing shut behind Winnie. Lorenzo simply nodded. Timothy Maguire shoved his hands in his pockets and meandered over to where the assistant chief of police was talking to the homicide officer who was going to end up catching both Tyrell and Pearl. It didn't take a lot of guesswork to figure out which victim was puckering up their foreheads.

Molly figured it would be a good quarter of an hour before the poor homicide guy got to her, so she spent a couple of minutes reporting off her other cases to the oncoming nurse to afford Winnie a little time, and then followed into Pearl's room.

"...stupid, stupid," she heard her boss chant, only the raw grief in her voice giving her away. Winnie's hand was out, hovering above her friend's stiff arm as if she couldn't quite close the gap. "You dumb nigger."

Molly took up her station at the door, knowing how hard it was for Winnie to have a witness. Knowing nonetheless that her place was here.

"You want to tell me about that note?" Winnie's voice was cold now, crisp as breaking ice.