Obsessed (19 page)

I felt my face grow hot. She was referring to the time after Kate was killed. Sure, I'd buried myself in my work. Been a surly sonofabitch to my colleagues. But if I'd messed up with patients, I'd have expected Gloria and Kwan and anyone else on the unit who noticed to have taken me to task.

“She's been showing poor judgment, and I'm the one responsible if she screws up.”

“But—” Gloria started.

“And why do you feel you have to protect her? Think about
that
, why don't you.”

I turned on my heel, leaving Gloria with her mouth open. The satisfaction I felt at leaving her at a loss for words vanished as I marched up the stairs to my office. I muttered to myself as I gathered up Uncle Jack's battered leather suitcase and his pile of newspaper clippings. Why couldn't I just have kept my trap shut? Mouthing off at Gloria was only proving the case against me.

I rode down in the elevator and stepped out onto the unit. Emily was on the phone at the nurses' station. I'd be glad when her stint with us was over. There'd been a whole lot of drama ever since she'd arrived, all of it with her at the center.

“Oh, wait. Never mind. Here he is,” Emily said into the receiver. Tentatively she offered me the phone, like she was afraid I'd bite off her hand. “It's Dr. Shands. For you.”

“Shands?” I croaked. He'd probably finished the statistical analysis. The last thing I wanted was to get the bad news while I was standing in the middle of the unit. When I set down the suitcase the pile of clippings fell to the ground. I kicked at them in anger and took the phone.

“Zak here,” I said. “I wonder if I could call you back—”

“Just called to ask how Mr. O'Neill is doing,” boomed Shands.

It occurred to me that he didn't know Uncle Jack was dropping out of his research study. It was Annie's decision, really not my job to tell him.

“Well, he's not here yet,” I said. “They're sending him back to us sometime today.”

“I heard, I heard. Great news.”

Emily was collecting the clippings.

Shands went on. “Awfully sorry about that mixup at the hospital. I'm sure you know how important it is for brain tissue to be flash-frozen as soon after death as possible. Frankly, I'd rather make a dozen errors like that one than let a brain slip by us. I hope Ms. Squires wasn't too upset.”

Now Emily was crouched, staring at one of the clippings.

“Right,” I said.

“I also have the final analysis of your test results. We should talk about it. I've got some time tomorrow. Around five?”

I pushed down the dread that was backing up my throat. Get a grip, I told myself. Reality was always preferable to the nightmares the imagination could concoct. Usually, anyway.

“Peter, you there?”

“Five. Thursday. Sure.” I hung up.

Emily was still holding a newspaper clipping. I went over to help her, my mind churning with what Shands might tell me.

“This is very weird.” She looked up at me. “I wonder where on earth this—” Her voice broke off. “You okay?”

“I'm just fine,” I said, biting off the words.

She gave me a searching look. “You don't seem like yourself.” Then seemed to remember what she was holding. “Did you see this?”

I took it from her and read. It was an obituary. “Mr. O'Neill had this. Felicia. Same name as his wife. He probably got it from one of the newspapers on the unit.”

“Look at the date.”

The obituary was dated May, three months ago. Long before Uncle Jack joined us.

“Here's another one.” Emily held up another newspaper clipping. It was an obituary for a Frank Mosticcio, and it was dated even earlier. “I wonder where he picked these up.”

What the hell difference did it make? Uncle Jack picked up stuff everywhere he went. He'd have torn the coupons from the back of the cereal boxes at breakfast and walked off with the plastic cutlery if we'd let him.

I looked at my watch and did a quick computation. Thirty hours, approximately, and I'd be hearing the “final analysis.” Did that mean that afterward I'd be ready for the “final solution”?

“Who knows, maybe there's a stack of these somewhere and he helped himself to a few,” I said.

“Odd coincidence, don't you think? Both of these people were patients at the MRI lab. They both had Lewy body dementia.”

Now she had my attention.

U
NCLE
J
ACK
returned to the Pearce that afternoon. Sometimes a transfer can be exhausting, but he seemed energized. It was Annie who looked wiped out. She sat in the vinyl-cushioned easy chair alongside his bed, her head back, eyes closed.

She opened her eyes. “Hey, Uncle Jack, look who's here.”

Uncle Jack was sitting up in bed. He looked at me without a spark of recognition.

“I'm Dr. Zak, Peter Zak,” I said.

Then he surprised me. “Got a quarter?”

I grinned, reached into my pocket, pulled one out, and gave it to him. When he started to put it in his mouth, I took it back. One step forward, one step back.

A radio crackled static on the table. Staccato sentences with a lot of numbers. Then, “Ten-four. I'm en route.”

“Police scanner,” Annie said. “Uncle Jack used to keep one in his kitchen. I brought this in, thought he'd enjoy listening.”

Another burst of static, then a bunch of number and the dispatcher gave an address. Uncle Jack sat up straighter.

“Domestic disturbance and a stolen car,” Annie translated. “Not too far from Uncle Jack's house.”

I gave Annie Uncle Jack's stack of clippings that I'd saved.

“You saved these for him? That was so sweet.”

“Why don't you have a look at what's there,” I said.

She gave me a questioning look. She knew I wanted her to notice something. She started looking through. “Golf. Mobile homes.” She shook her head. “Who knew?” She paged through some more. “What's this?” She'd found one of the obituaries.

“Emily says she was a patient at the MRI lab. She had Lewy body dementia.”

“What?” Now Annie was sitting up, alert.

“There's another one in there, too.”

Annie found the other obituary. She looked up, flushed. “But this says he died after a short illness.”

Now Annie was burrowing through the rest of the clippings.

“That's it?” she said, sounding disappointed. “Still, I wonder. I mean, don't you find this significant?” She waved the two obituaries at me. “And look, the edges are cut, not torn like the rest of his stuff.”

“I wonder if someone at the lab cut them out and your uncle helped himself. Maybe the name on this one caught his attention. Felicia.”

Annie flattened both obituaries on the table. “
After a short illness
.” She looked up at me. “That's what Uncle Jack's obituary would have said if he'd died. Wouldn't hurt to do a little checking.”

She tucked the two obituaries into her backpack, then leaned over and kissed Uncle Jack on the forehead. “I'm going home now,” she told him. “I'm beat. And Columbo needs to be fed.”

She picked up her backpack and I walked her out into the hall.

“By the way, I talked to Mac,” Annie said. “He called to ask about Uncle Jack. I guess he heard he was sick.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, right. As if you didn't know. Anyway, I told him Uncle Jack got sick right after he had an MRI at the place where there was an accident and that doctor got killed. Funny I should mention that, he says. Tox screen came back on the victim. Blood alcohol level was .09. Also positive for diazepam.”

I whistled. A couple of drinks and a dose of Valium could easily cloud your judgment. Knock the crap out of you, actually, depending on how much. At least it explained how Philbrick could have forgotten to take his wallet out of his pocket.

When we reached the lobby I heard footsteps behind me, someone running up the hall. I turned around as Emily Ryan bore down on us.

“They're holding Kyle for murder,” she said, breathless. When she saw Annie, she backed away, tripping over her own feet. “Oh, I'm sorry. You weren't up in your office. I didn't realize you were…It's just that I don't know what to do. They took him in for questioning a few hours ago. Now they're holding him.”

It was happening again. Why was this my problem? I was torn between tucking her under my wing and drop-kicking her into the middle of the parking lot.

I didn't have to make a decision. Annie nudged me aside. “Sounds like you'd better tell us what happened.”

We went upstairs to my office. I pulled a bottle of bourbon out of the back of my desk drawer and poured some into a coffee mug. Emily took a sip and grimaced.

“I guess he was at the lab the morning Leonard was killed. Following me.”

“He was there?” I said.

“He followed me from home that morning. Then he waited. He saw you. When the police arrived he took off.” Emily took another sip of the bourbon. “He was just trying to protect me. He's an idiot, but he's not a murderer.”

“What else?” Annie asked. She knew that wouldn't be enough to hold him.

“They found out that Kyle had threatened Lenny, followed him home one night a few weeks before. The neighbors saw them arguing in front of Lenny's apartment building. He knew Lenny went out with me occasionally, and that he'd been walking me to my car.”

I wondered if that explained the bruise I'd noticed under Philbrick's eye the day Uncle Jack had gotten his MRI.

“Anything else?” Annie asked, picking up the bourbon bottle and getting ready to pour some more.

Emily put her hand over the top of the mug. “I guess Kyle called Philbrick. A few times. Left messages threatening to do I don't know what, slash his tires maybe, if he didn't stop following me. Lenny must've saved the tapes.”

Annie sat there giving Emily an appraising look. “And what do you think about all this?”

I'd been pushed to the background but I didn't mind.

“Kyle would do just about anything to protect me. That's always been the problem. He's overbearing, controlling, and a major pain in the butt.”

“Do you think he killed Leonard Philbrick?” Annie asked.

“God, no!” Emily said. “Why would he?” She looked from Annie to me and back. Her mouth fell open. “To protect me? I know how it looks. But think about it, whoever killed Lenny knew about MRI scanners. Kyle majored in beer and sports. He's a PE teacher, for goodness sake. He could no more pull off Lenny's murder than I could coach a football team.”

“Did you get yourself an attorney?” I asked.

“I'm not going to need one. I didn't do anything,” she said stubbornly.

Annie and I exchanged a look.

“You just finished telling us that Kyle hasn't got the know-how to pull off the accident,” Annie said. “The police are pretty smart. They're going to realize that, too, and they'll be thinking maybe Kyle didn't do it alone. Maybe someone helped him. Someone who knows all about those contraptions.”

It wasn't hard to put this particular one and one together. Kyle had the strength, Emily had the knowledge. They work as a team. Maybe Emily and Philbrick have a couple of drinks. She laces his with Valium. Philbrick passes out and Kyle gets him up on the platform. Emily operates the scanner. Then it's just a matter of introducing the offending oxygen tank to the scan room. Kyle might even have been the one to procure it so there'd be no trail of evidence pointing to Emily.

“But I can explain—” Emily started.

“You shouldn't be doing any explaining to anyone unless you've got an attorney present,” Annie said. “You tell the police half the stuff you've told us and they'll run with it. In about thirty seconds flat you'll find yourself arrested as an accessory—or worse.”

“You actually think she did it?” Annie asked me later as we walked out to the parking lot.

“You don't?”

“Mysterious death at MRI lab. Stalking victim's revenge? I don't think so.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out the two obituaries. “This is what I think it's all about.”

“Mad scientists killing dementia patients?” I said. The red Miata beeped as Emily drove past us. That was where my money was.

When I got home I poured myself a glass of Zin and settled into the leather-cushioned Morris chair in my living room. I tried to read the paper, hoping it would keep my mind off tomorrow's appointment with Shands and what he might have to tell me about my brain. Instead I found my thoughts wandering to how I was going to deal with my suspicions—which were now hardening into a conviction—that Emily Ryan had something to do with Leonard Philbrick's death. Either she'd caused the accident and wasn't willing to admit her mistake, or worse, she and Kyle had conspired to kill him. The idea that I was supervising a murderer, allowing her to continue working with patients, felt damned uncomfortable.