A Deadly Affection (21 page)

As the new arrivals were led away, Simon crossed to the matron's desk and handed her our passes. “We're here to see Elizabeth Miner.”

“Are you family?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And what manner is that?” she asked him drily. She had kind eyes beneath her no-nonsense exterior, and a tone that suggested nothing could surprise her.

“Well now, we're all God's children, aren't we?” he said with a smile, sliding an official-looking piece of paper across her desk.

She scanned the lines that were written on it. “If that's good enough for the warden,” she said with a shrug, “it's good enough for me.” She pushed the visitor's log toward us. “Sign in here.”

An assistant arrived to bring us to Eliza's cell. I trailed a few feet behind her and Simon, looking about me in grim fascination. The original Tombs had been built on a marshy site inside the old Collect Pond, causing it to eventually sink and crack and allow water into the building. This newer facility, built only five years earlier, seemed destined for the same fate. Already, I could see fine cracks along the walls and damp spots on the floor. It seemed that more thought had been paid to the prison's facade than to its functioning, for the lighting inside the annex was uneven, and the heating system clearly not up to its job. On the garbage trolleys parked against the walls, I could see the remains of the morning meal: a pasty blend of potato chunks and shredded meat that was of questionable vintage and, judging by the abundant leftovers, even more questionable taste.

A sense of propriety kept me from staring into the prisoners' cells as we passed, but the little I saw made it clear that these living quarters, though less dilapidated than the cells at the magistrate's court, were just as stark and forbidding. I'd heard stories about the Tombs' more privileged male residents, said to warm their feet on Kidderminster carpets and to sleep under down-stuffed quilts. Just a few weeks before, I'd read an article in
Munsey's
about a wealthy embezzler who left his cell each night to dine with his family at home. More recently, the papers had been flush with descriptions of Harry Thaw's custom mattress and silk pajamas and imported, hemstitched sheets. Indeed, it was said the only time Thaw's cell door was locked was when he requested it, to preserve his privacy. I saw no evidence of such freedom or luxury here, however, in the dim cubicles of the women's annex.

As we continued toward Eliza's cell, I debated how much I should tell her. Although I knew she'd be happy to learn that Joy had been well cared for, I doubted she'd be willing to leave it at that, and this hardly seemed a good time for a mother-daughter reunion. Informing her that she might have Huntington's chorea, moreover, on top of everything else she was going through, seemed just plain cruel. My decision made, I drew abreast of Simon to advise him.

“I don't want to tell her about the disease. Or the Fiskes. Not until we're sure. She has enough to deal with already.”

“You're the doctor,” he said with a shrug.

A few moments later, we pulled up alongside Eliza's cell. She was hunched on the far end of the iron bed, dressed in coarse prison issue. She lifted her head on sight of me but made no move to get up.

The assistant retrieved a small stool from further down the hall and set it in front of the cell door. “There's only the one, so you'll have to take turns.”

“Can't we go in inside?” I asked. “I'm her doctor. I'd like to examine her while I'm here.”

“Sorry, miss, but thems the rules.”

Simon slipped a dollar bill into the young woman's hand. “And the best part of rules is breaking them, don't you think?”

She glanced down the hall as her hand folded over the bill. “You've got fifteen minutes,” she said, inserting her key into the lock.

Simon picked up the stool and ushered me into the cell.

I hurried in and knelt before Eliza. Her eyes seemed glazed over, and her face was dreadfully pale. “Eliza, how are you feeling? You look exhausted.”

“I can't sleep,” she said, massaging her temple with a trembling hand. “I hear things moving at night. I think it must be rats.”

“Try throwing some coffee grounds around your bed, if you can get some,” Simon suggested, drawing up beside me. “Mothballs would be even better.”

She frowned up at him uncertainly.

“This is Mr. Shaw,” I said, getting to my feet. “He's the Tammany election captain for your district. He's here to see if he can help.”

She sat up a little straighter, smoothing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I had to tell him, Eliza,” I added. “About Joy and the doctor. He needed to know if he was going to help.”

“Don't worry,” Simon said. “I'm not going to repeat anything to the police. But I would like to hear your story firsthand.”

Her large eyes were fixed on his face. Whatever she saw there seemed to reassure her, for she nodded solemnly and said, “All right.”

“Good!” I said, relieved that everyone was getting along. “Then let's get started.” I positioned the stool in front of her and sat down so that Simon had to stand behind me. Though I couldn't very well object to his asking questions, I intended to remain firmly in charge. “We don't have much time, Eliza, so why don't you begin by telling Mr. Shaw what you heard while you were waiting for Dr. Hauptfuhrer in the examining room?”

She did as I asked, repeating everything she'd told me in the detaining cell at the magistrate's court. I listened with half an ear to make sure nothing had changed in the retelling, watching at the same time for any signs of chorea I might have missed earlier. This, however, proved to be a frustrating exercise. According to the literature, early symptoms could be as subtle as an exaggerated gesture, or a moment of unexplained clumsiness, or even just excessive restlessness. I didn't know how I was supposed to distinguish the normal from the early-symptomatic with any certainty. That slow rotation of her shoulder, for instance; was that an involuntary muscle contraction, or was she just stretching her neck? And what about the slight tremble in her arm when she wiped the back of her wrist across her forehead? Did that indicate an early loss of muscular control, or was it merely a product of shock and fatigue? Only in hindsight, it seemed to me, could the existence of disease at this early stage be absolutely confirmed or denied.

There was no question, however, that she wasn't well. She kept rubbing her temples as she labored through her narrative, squinting up over my shoulder at Simon as if through a haze of pain. I could hear the intake of her every breath and see her teeth clench with the effort of continuing.

“Eliza,” I finally broke in, as she swayed on the thin cot, “are you all right?”

“I'm feeling a little dizzy.”

“Have you had anything to eat?” I asked, beginning with the simplest explanation.

“Some soup last night.”

“What about breakfast?”

“I couldn't.”

“You need to eat, to keep up your strength.”

“I just couldn't,” she repeated, her eyes welling with tears.

Remembering the congealed substance I'd seen on the trays in the hallway, I understood why she might find the thought of breakfast upsetting, although I guessed her teary response was a product of underlying exhaustion as well. “I'll talk to the warden before we leave about bringing you some proper food on my next visit.” I smiled encouragingly. “And some mothballs.”

She nodded, but her expression was so distant, I couldn't be sure she was even listening.

Twisting around on the stool, I murmured to Simon, “We've got to do something. She's sick, and this place isn't helping.”

“What do you think is wrong with her?”

I shook my head. “I don't know; it could be the grippe, or something she ate. But whatever it is, if we don't do something soon, I'm afraid it will only get worse.”

“There's an infirmary downstairs. We could ask them to bring her down.”

Prison infirmaries weren't known for a high standard of care under the best of circumstances; with the prison currently overcrowded, the likelihood that she would get even cursory attention seemed slim. “I doubt they could do much for her here. Is there any way we could have her moved to a private facility?”

He looked at Eliza for a long moment, his lips pursed, then back at me. “I'd like to ask her a few questions.”

I supposed I couldn't very well refuse. “Fine, but try to keep it short,” I said as I reluctantly gave up the stool. “We don't want to overtax her.”

“Don't worry. This won't take long.” He settled himself onto the stool, propping his elbows on his splayed knees, looking utterly at ease on the awkward little seat as I hovered anxiously behind him. “Mrs. Miner, if you don't mind, I'd like to get straight to the point.”

“All right,” she said evenly.

“Did you kill Dr. Hauptfuhrer?”

I clucked in dismay, trying to step around him. “What kind of a quest—”

“No,” Eliza replied. “I didn't.”

“I wouldn't blame you for hating him,” he said. “He took your child from you.”

“I don't hate him. I never did. I just didn't want him to take her.”

He studied her for a long moment, saying nothing, while she steadily returned his gaze. “You told the police you arrived at the doctor's before office hours. Why so early?”

“I'd waited for so long,” she said softly. “Once I made up my mind to ask him, I just couldn't bear to wait any longer.”

“For your prescription, you mean?” he asked with a frown. “Were you in pain?”

“No, I mean I couldn't wait to ask him where Joy was.”

Simon scratched his head. “So you're saying that the reason you went to the doctor's office that morning was actually to ask him about your daughter?”

I shifted uneasily on my feet. I hadn't told Simon that part, fearing he'd distort its importance.

Eliza glanced at me over his shoulder. “Why, yes, didn't Dr. Summerford tell you? She was the one who gave me the idea, after class. She said I had a right to know what happened to my baby. I'd always felt too ashamed to ask, but Dr. Summerford made me see it differently. I don't think I'd ever have found the courage without her.”

“Is that right?” he asked slowly. “And what exactly did Dr. Summerford say, if you recall?”

“Oh, I remember it very clearly,” she answered, her face luminous in its pallor. “She said that Dr. Hauptfuhrer should have let me keep Joy, and that he was the one who'd acted badly, not I.”

“Actually,” I broke in from behind Simon's shoulder, “I believe what I said was—”

Simon threw a hand up into the air to silence me. “So when you went to see the doctor,” he continued, “you were of the mind that what happened was his fault, and that you had a right to know your daughter's whereabouts. Is that about right?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“It must have been quite a letdown when he wouldn't tell you.”

“Oh, but he was going to.”

“Really? You mean he agreed?”

“Well, not at first. But then I told him that if he didn't, I'd let everyone know what he'd done.”

“And that did the trick?”

“Yes. I suppose he believed I'd do it, although I wasn't really sure at the time.”

“So there was no more need to argue.”

“That's right.”

He leaned back on the stool. “You must have been very convincing.”

She hesitated, apparently confused by his tone. “Yes. I suppose.”

“And did he tell you where your daughter was?”

“Well, no, he went into his office first to get her records. I'd told him I wanted proof, so that I could be sure he was telling me the truth. And that's—that's when somebody killed him.”

“That's when somebody killed him,” Simon repeated. “Somebody who'd been waiting inside his office all along.”

She nodded.

He squinted up at the ceiling. “But didn't you say the doctor went into his office earlier to finish up some business, after he let you into the examination room?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“And there was no one with him then?”

“I don't think so. At least, I didn't see anyone through the connecting door when he went in.”

“We believe the murderer came in later, through the side door,” I said. “While the doctor was in the examining room with Eliza.”

“I didn't see anything about that in the police report,” Simon said.

“That's because Maloney left it out.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don't know,” I shot back. “Why don't you ask him?” I saw his shoulder muscles stiffen.

“Mrs. Miner,” he continued, “you said you heard a shout. Is there any other evidence you know of—besides the dead body, I mean—that suggests another person was in that room with the doctor?”

“She told you, she heard the door slam,” I answered.

His hand shot back up into the air. “Mrs. Miner?”

She looked uncertainly from Simon to me. “I heard the door slam,” she repeated faintly.

Simon turned then and looked at me. I didn't like the expression on his face.

“Time's up,” said the matron's assistant, appearing at the door.

“We're not finished,” I told her.

Simon stood. “I've heard enough.”

“Wait.” I dug a dollar out of my purse and pushed it through the bars to the assistant. “Just five more minutes; please.”

She pocketed the money with a nod. “Just five, then. I'll wait at the end of the hall.”

Dropping back onto the vacated stool, I asked Eliza, “Did you ever feel the slightest desire to harm the doctor, at any time? Tell us the truth.”