Obsessed (12 page)

I got in early the next morning. First thing I went to check on Uncle Jack. His empty bed had been stripped. Was he up and about, a miracle overnight cure? I didn't want to think about the alternative. I wheeled around and ran smack into Kwan.

“We hospitalized him,” he said.

“How come no one called me?” My voice came out louder than I intended.

“Peter, he just went off a couple of hours ago. I knew you were coming in and—”

“What happened?”

“If you'll stop interrupting me, I'll tell you.”

A woman patient was hovering down the hall watching us. I pulled Kwan into Uncle Jack's room with me.

“His fever was worse and he had shaking chills,” Kwan said. “Shortness of breath, chest pain. Not severe, but I didn't want to take a chance. Better he's in the hospital where they can treat him aggressively if it turns into pneumonia.”

Pneumonia. Some called it “friend of the aged” because it was a relatively benign death. Certainly it was quicker and neater than dying of Lewy body dementia.

“Has anyone told the family?”

“I was just about to do that,” Kwan said.

“I'll take care of it.”

I rushed up two flights of stairs and down the corridor to my office. I barely noticed Mr. Black waiting outside Emily's office. I unlocked my door and went for the phone. Annie might still be at home or she might be on her way to work. Either way, her cell phone was the better bet.

One ring. Two.
Please pick up
.

When she did, I exhaled.

Before she could ask what was wrong I said, “Kwan doesn't think it's life-threatening, but as a precaution your Uncle Jack has been admitted to Beth Israel.” I told her about the fever, the chills, chest pain.

She didn't say anything for a moment. Then, “This was just what I was afraid was going to happen. I told you I didn't like that place.”

“And I told you that MRIs can't cause upper respiratory illnesses.”

“So why is he sick? That's it. No more tests. No more magnets. No more little pink pills. I don't care. That place is a death trap.”

“Annie, I'm really sorry,” I began, the words sounding lame and inadequate.

“It's not your fault. It's mine. I should have listened to my gut.”

Instead she'd listened to me. I gave her the information about where Uncle Jack was and when she could visit. Then I hung up the phone and massaged my temples. It was too early for a headache, but I was developing a doozy.

I opened my drawer and took out a bottle of aspirin and what I thought was an empty mug—turned out it had a coating of pungent scum on the bottom. I headed for the bathroom to get some water.

Mr. Black was still out in the hall, waiting. “Have you seen Dr. Ryan?” he asked. “Her car wasn't in the parking lot when I got here.”

Hadn't he just had an appointment with her the day before? She was his therapist, not his girlfriend. What she drove and where she parked was no business of his, and I was about to tell him so when I noticed his right shirtsleeve was empty. It was too late to keep my jaw from dropping.

Mr. Black glanced at his missing arm. Then he examined my face. He suppressed a grin. Then I noticed that his upper body seemed thicker on the armless side, and his shirt twitched. He must have taped his arm to his chest. Emily had said she had a brainstorm. I had to admire it. Here was an intervention, allowing Mr. Black to try out what it was like to live without an arm before actually doing it.

“I thought I had an eight-fifteen appointment with her,” he said. It was past 8:30. “Do you think she's all right?” He seemed genuinely concerned. “I'm sure I don't have the date wrong. I just saw her yesterday afternoon and we made a special appointment for first thing today. She wanted me to come in and report on my, uh”—he paused, glancing at his arm—“progress.”

I went downstairs. Gloria was at the nurses' station. She checked the notebook she keeps with all our schedules. “She's supposed to be here.” She cocked her head and looked up at the ceiling, as if she were looking up at Emily's empty office. “It's not like her to keep a patient waiting.”

I picked up the desk phone and called Emily's beeper. I punched in the number for the unit. While I waited for a call back, I washed out my cup, filled it with fresh coffee and knocked back a couple of aspirin. I sifted through the mail, and Gloria hovered over the phone.

After ten minutes, Emily hadn't called. Gloria had already looked up her home number. She tried there. The answering machine picked up.

“Maybe she's at the lab where she works,” I suggested. I looked up their number and called. The phone rang and kept on ringing.

That was odd. It was after nine. Where was Amanda, the receptionist? If the office wasn't open, wouldn't they have calls forwarded to an answering service? I was about to give up when someone picked up.

“Hello?” It was a man's voice, a little breathless. For a moment, I thought I'd gotten the wrong number. Then I recognized the voice. It was Dr. Shands.

“This is Peter Zak,” I said. “I'm sorry to bother you, but I was looking for Dr. Ryan.”

“She”—there was a pause—“she's unavailable right now.”

“She has a patient—” I started. That's when I heard a woman scream. At first it was loud, then muffled, as if Shands put his hand over the receiver. “Dr. Shands? Is everything all right?”

There was scuffling sound. Then, “I'm sorry.” His voice was emotionless. “Something's happened. We have an emergency situation here.”

“I just need to talk to her for a moment….”

The line had gone dead.

“W
HAT
? W
HAT
?” Gloria said, leaning over me.

I stared at the receiver. “I talked to the guy who runs the place. Emily can't come to the phone. He says there's an emergency situation.”

“Emergency situation—what's that supposed to mean?” Gloria demanded, echoing my own question.

“And I heard a woman scream.”

“Do you think it was Emily?” Gloria asked, her voice taut. “One of us needs to get over there.” She gave a quick glance at the clock. “I can't leave, so it's got to be you.” I'd always known which one of us was more dispensable. “You and I have a meeting with the head of plant and operations at ten, but that can wait. I'll send someone up to apologize to the patient.”

I didn't even bother to go up for my jacket. Without thinking what I'd do when I got there, I raced out. As I drove toward Central Square, I ran the brief phone conversation through my head. Why wasn't the receptionist answering the phone? Did “emergency” mean there'd been an accident—
another
accident, this one with graver consequences than a flying hockey puck? Who was screaming? And what was Emily doing at the MRI lab when she had an appointment with Mr. Black at the Pearce?

Traffic backed up on Mass. Ave. as I approached Sidney Street. At the corner, I could see flashing lights reflecting off the building. Several police cruisers, a fire truck, and an ambulance were parked in front. Traffic was taking forever to crawl past. I stayed on Mass. Ave. and parked at a meter. Then I sprinted back.

I approached the building. There was a crowd of gawkers gathered outside. Firefighters were getting back into their truck.

I edged up to the cop at the entrance. “I need to go inside,” I told him.

“Sorry, no one goes in,” he said, his face impassive, his eyes in shadow under the visor of his cap.

“What happened?”

“We need to keep this area clear, sir,” he said. “Please move along.”

Through the glass doors I could see the lobby. The doors to the MRI lab were propped open and another officer was stationed there. An EMT came out through the lobby and into the street. I followed her to the ambulance.

“Is anyone hurt?”

She didn't answer, her face impassive. She grabbed for a metal suitcase from the back of the ambulance.

“I have a friend who works in there,” I said. She paused. “A good friend.”

She gave me a quick glance and shook her head. “Sorry.”

I watched her disappear into the building. If someone had been hurt, they'd have been rushed to the hospital already. Police and EMTs still there meant something worse had happened. Had Emily's stalker followed her and finally struck?

I had to get inside. But short of tackling the officer at the door, there was no way I was going to get past him. I walked around the corner. They hadn't blocked off the garage entrance. I ducked inside and trotted down the ramp.

Taking the elevator up wasn't going to help. I'd just end up being turned away again at the lobby entrance. Then I remembered the stairway exits in the MRI lab. Did any of them end down here?

I tried to orient myself. I moved to the part of the garage under the lab. There was a sign on the door to the stairwell:
NOT AN ENTRANCE
. In smaller print below, it directed people to the elevator. I tried the door. It opened. Someone had taped the latch over to keep it from engaging.

I took the stairs two at a time and stopped at the exit door painted with a big numeral one. The handle on the door creaked as I pushed down on it and pulled the door open a crack. I listened. There were voices, but not nearby. I slipped into the corridor.

I hadn't been in this part of the place before. There was what looked like a pathology lab—a large room with a couple of stainless steel tables, sinks. There were plastic buckets and containers stacked on the floor, plus all kinds of lab equipment including oversized microscopes jury-rigged with lights and cameras. Shelves held hundreds of jars with paper labels. Probably stains and fixatives for making slides.

I continued along the hall to a pair of fire doors. I looked through a window in the door. There was Shands's office. As I pushed through, Shands came out into the hall.

“How the hell did you get in here? I thought they had this place—”

“What happened? Is Emily all right?” I asked, cutting him off.

“Dr. Ryan?” His eyebrows came together in a question. “Dr. Ryan—” His voice hardened.

Just then two police officers came striding up the hallway. “Dr. Shands?” the taller one said, ignoring me. “I have a few questions. Is there somewhere we could talk?”

Shands hung there. He looked at me, then back at the police officers. Then, like a light switch, he turned on the charm. “Sure,” he said with a benign smile. “Be happy to answer any questions you have.” He took them into his office.

I continued down the hall into the central area with its warning signs and desk. Amanda the receptionist was sitting there, looking pale and in shock. The double doors to the inner areas were propped open. The sawhorse barriers had been overturned. The door to the scanning room was open, too. The EMT I'd seen outside strode past me and into the room. I moved closer.

I barely noticed the swarm of police officers and medical technicians. I was riveted by the blood on the white linoleum floor.

A man, probably a medical examiner, stood with his back to me, hunched over the table. I knew there was a person on the table, the same person whose blood had pooled beneath the system and been tracked across the floor.

I took a step into the room. A dented oxygen tank lay on the floor near the machine. I felt sick to my stomach, remembering how the magnet had hurtled toward the machine. An oxygen tank would be just as lethal.

I was pressing forward. I needed to see. A police officer came at me. He put his hands up. “Sorry, sir. I'm going to have to ask you to wait in another room.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

Now the medical examiner was turning. He was stepping aside. As he reached into his bag for something, the victim's arm slipped and dangled off the edge of the table. The armpit of the white lab coat was stained with sweat.

“Dr. Zak?” said a woman's voice behind me, uncertain and tremulous. It was Emily. I turned and exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

Emily moved toward me hesitantly, her face streaked with tears. Then she paused, wobbled, looking as if she might collapse. When I took her in my arms, her muscles went limp.

“Poor Lenny,” she said. “It's so awful.” She gave a deep, wracking sob. She hugged me tighter, her breathing quickening. “Thanks for being here.” Then she righted herself, struggling to regain control before pulling away and giving me an odd look. “Why
are
you here?”

She wasn't alone in that thought.

“What the hell are
you
doing here?” It was Detective Sergeant Joseph MacRae.

I wasn't surprised to see MacRae standing there in his rumpled brown suit. After all, he was a homicide detective.

“Christ almighty,” he said, rubbing his hand back and forth across the side of his red buzz cut and eyeing me with distaste. His ears burned with annoyance. I'd ended up in the middle of far too many investigations for his taste…or mine.

When I'd first met MacRae, he'd been smitten with a crime victim who claimed to remember who shot her in the head. I liked to think that over time we'd developed a grudging respect for one another. Maybe. It didn't help that he and Annie were old friends, and at one time may have been more than that.

“Hey, Mac,” I said.

He eyed me suspiciously. “I didn't know you worked here too.”

I barely missed a beat. “I'm involved in a research project with these guys.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. He sounded less than convinced. “Ms. Ryan seems to have found the victim,” MacRae said, his tone implying something more than his words. Emily stood there trembling.

“
Dr.
Ryan,” I said stiffly. “She works here.” I knew she'd have been badly overmatched against MacRae.

Emily took another look at Philbrick's body and her lower lip quivered. She bit on a knuckle.

“How about I take Dr. Ryan somewhere she can calm down a little?” I offered.

“Just don't take her too far,” MacRae said. “We're going to want to talk to her. And you too.”

I took one last look at Leonard Philbrick. Even from across the room, I could see that his skull had been crushed. His personal belongings had been laid out on a rolling stainless steel table. Shattered eyeglasses. A couple of pencils. Wallet.

As I put my arm around Emily and shepherded her to the control room, I wondered why Philbrick had called me yesterday—three times.
Damn.
I could hear his voice. Had the call just been a routine follow-up on Annie's uncle? That made no sense. Why not just call the floor nurse and get it? Had he been reluctant to say why he was calling because he'd been calling from here and didn't want to be overheard? He hadn't answered his phone when I called him back—had he ended up staying here all night?

Through the glass panel we could see the police and the medical personnel working. We sat at one of the tables. Emily's face was swollen, her eyes bleary. She winced as a camera flashed next door.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked.

Emily hiccupped. “Lenny called me last night to tell me—”

“When?” I asked, cutting her off.

She gave me a surprised look. “At around eight, I think.”

“He called me too. Three times yesterday afternoon. When I tried to call him back he didn't answer his phone. Here or at home.”

“That's odd. He called me to say that Dr. Pullaski found my beeper,” Emily said. “I was sure I had it with me but when I went to look, it wasn't in my bag. I told him I'd have to come in early because I had an appointment with Mr. Black at…” Her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh. Mr. Black.” She rose to her feet.

“Don't worry. We sent him home, told him you were held up by an emergency.”

Emily groaned. “I hope he's okay.”

“So you found Dr. Philbrick?”

She nodded. “I heard the scanner going. Seemed odd, that early in the morning. I came in to see what was up.” Emily's gazed through the window. They were shifting Philbrick's body from the table. “I saw the blood.”

Emily looked down at her feet. I wondered if she had blood on her shoes.

“I could barely breathe.” She swallowed. “I knew someone was inside.”

“So you stopped the scan and slid the table out?”

“I tried to. But it was stuck.” She started to cry again. “I tried and tried, but I couldn't get it to budge. Finally I shut everything down and turned off the magnetic field. Quenched the magnet.” She pointed to a red button, marked
EMERGENCY RUNDOWN
, set apart from the others on the control panel. “I'd been drilled, over and over, never to do that except in a dire emergency when someone's pinned in the machine.”

“You came in here to shut it down?”

“No. There's another panel on the wall beside the scanner. There was this loud noise, like a jet plane. Scared me half to death. Then the thing shut down. The helium vented to the outside. No explosion, thank God.”

I looked into the scanner room. There was a sort of aluminum smokestack connecting the scanner to the outside wall. That must have been how the cryogenic gasses vented.

“The table still wouldn't move. The tank was wedged in there.” Emily looked at back of her hand. The nail on her index finger was broken down to the quick. She put it in her mouth and sucked. “That's when Dr. Shands came in. He called the police. They managed to pry the tank out of there.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you bring oxygen tanks into the scanner room all the time. You brought a tank in for Mr. O'Neill.”

“That one was MRI-compatible. It's the only kind we use to avoid just this kind of accident. I don't know where that tank came from.” Her eyes widened as she realized the implications.

“If that oxygen tank got here by mistake,” I said, “and you happened to be the one who brought it into the scan room, no one would—”

“That's not what happened. Besides, we never assume—we always test before bringing one into the scan room.” Her eyes beseeched me. “You don't believe me, do you?”

I didn't say anything. I was thinking about how careful Philbrick was. He'd been working around powerful magnets for years. Emily had been working around them for only a few months.

MacRae came to the window. He looked at Emily and jerked his thumb in the direction of the hall. Behind him a technician was dusting the MRI system for fingerprints. They'd find Emily's prints on top. Now he moved on to the oxygen tank. He'd find her prints on that, too.

“It doesn't matter what I think. What matters is what the police believe. You shouldn't be talking to them without an attorney.”