Doc in the Box (9 page)

He said Leo’s black Jeep wasn’t on the lot, and there was no sign of the blue gym bag with the nice green lining. His suitcase was still in the closet.

“Any clothes missing from his closet?”

“Nothing. Take a look.”

Leo’s bedroom had an unmade king-size waterbed, a battered dresser decorated with souvenir liquor bottles, another stereo, and a CD tower. Shirts, socks, pants, shorts, belts, towels, and bikini underwear were dropped in piles on the floor, the dresser, and the bed. Two shirts and a jockstrap hung on the CD tower. The closet door was open. Inside were thickets of empty hangers, two flashy-looking suits, and a costume under plastic. On the closet floor, under a jumble of shoes, hangers, and clothes, was a black nylon suitcase.

“How can you tell his clothes are all here?” I said.

“I can see them,” Justin said, surprised I would
ask. “This probably looks like a mess, but he’s got his clothes sorted into piles for clean, dirty, and dirty-but-I-can-wear-it-if-I-have-to.”

I found Leo’s leather jewelry box under a mildewed towel. It had a lot of chunky, cheesy stuff you find in pawnshop windows: gold chains, big rings with cloudy stones, link bracelets, cigar cases.

“Gifts from his lady friends,” Justin said. “It’s not my style, but nothing’s missing that I can tell.”

The bathroom’s algae rivaled the fish tank. For some reason the toilet had a matching green tank cover, seat cover, and fitted rug, trimmed with dog hair. It was a homey touch, but the fixtures were so dirty I’d rather use a bus-station restroom. The medicine cabinet held a box of Trojans, a bunch of tubes squeezed in the middle, hair spray, theatrical makeup in manly shades of bronze, and Joe Blasco makeup brushes. The lad took his work seriously.

His eyeliner was still on the sink. That’s when it finally hit me. He was dead. Had to be. I couldn’t see Leo going anywhere without his eyeliner.

I tried to find a tactful way to ask, “Why would he live in this pit with what he made?” Finally, I said, “He lived simply for a man taking home twelve hundred a night.”

“He saved almost every penny,” Justin said. “He was hoping to retire soon. He figured he’d just about peaked, and when the Titanic act got old, he’d quit. He was getting tired of women scratching him with those long nails. They really tore him up, you know.”

“I saw.”

“Some of those cuts got infected. They took forever to heal,” Justin said. “Women are animals.”

I was looking for a dead man when the murder took place.

I was convinced that Leo D. Nardo was dead, his twelve hundred dollars were gone, and his sexy black Jeep was in a chop shop. But it was just possible he’d bought a plane ticket and walked out of his life. Other men had done it. Women, too. He could have taken that twelve hundred dollars and hopped a plane.

Monday morning, I took his photos out to the airport and showed them around the ticket counters. I showed them to janitors, skycaps, parking lot shuttle bus drivers, and fast-food counter clerks. Thousands of people went through the airport every day, but they didn’t look like Leo D. Nardo. Someone would have remembered him.

No one had seen him. Airport security had no reports of abandoned black Jeeps in the parking lot. I was convinced that if Leo had left town, he didn’t go by plane. He could have driven, but in that case, why didn’t he pack any clothes or take his precious vitamins and protein supplements? He thought they kept him dancing, and that’s how he earned his living.

I ate a pizza slice and a cinnamon bun at the airport—the smell of both had tantalized me all morning—and by eleven-ten I was heading back to pick up Georgia for her radiation treatment. I’d make one more visit to the Heart’s Desire tonight to wrap things up and have the Leo story finished tomorrow. No problem. Barnes-Jewish Hospital had Georgia in and out of radiation onocology in thirty minutes. I was back at the
Gazette
by one-thirty.

The minute I walked into the newsroom, I knew something was up. Instead of the usual idle gossip and malicious comments, conversations were quick and decisive. Assistant city editors were issuing orders, reporters were talking purposefully on the phone, staffers were grabbing notebooks and cameras and bailing out for the parking lot. It must be a hot story. This was the time I loved newspapers best, when we actually reported the news. Newspapers were like armies—peacetime made us fat and lazy, interested only in fighting with each other. War made us lean and mean. This was war, newsroom style.

Jennifer, our newest reporter, was rushing back and forth across the newsroom, like a busy brown bird. Dart. Dart. Dart.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Another doc’s been shot at Moorton Hospital,” she said, breathlessly. “In the Doc in the Box building. An oncologist this time. Early reports say the killer walked right into his office and shot him. That’s all we know. Tina’s covering the main story, Jasper’s interviewing the people in the office, and I’m doing the victim profile. That’s what these are for,” she said, hefting a stack of thick computer printouts.

“Who’s the dead doc?”

“Dr. George Brentmoor.”

“When did it happen?”

“Sometime around noon. Gotta run.”

Around noon. The same time as the radiation oncology shootings. Brentmoor, the victim, sounded vaguely familiar. The best way to find out why was to check the morgue. That’s the newspaper nickname for the reference department. It’s accurate enough. Our dead stories are buried in the files.

A quick check of the computer showed Dr. Brentmoor and his wife, Stephanie, often starred in Babe’s gossip columns. “The newsome twosome,” in Babe-ese, appeared in photos at an endless number of hospital fund-raisers and parties. His wife had expensively streaked blond hair, surgically tightened facial skin, and a wide, stretched smile that looked like she might suddenly start screaming and never stop. She was so thin, I bet her backbone looked like a string of doorknobs.

The late doctor had the face of a fleshy third-rate Italian tenor: cleft chin, Roman nose, and thick wavy blond hair that surely was a torment to his chemo patients who were losing theirs. He looked handsome, even noble, in his posed studio portrait, but he must have ticked off the
Gazette
photographers, because their pictures of him were not pretty. In candid party photos, he had bags under his eyes, a paunchy middle, and a disfiguring sneer. He also had considerable money and power, because Babe’s coverage was adoring. This item from last Tuesday’s column was typical:

“Superdoc George Brentmoor and his lovely wife Stephanie were bending elbows to benefit Moorton Hospital at the Adam’s Mark Hotel. ‘We’re having a
wonderful time. We’re always happy to help the hospital,’ cooed spouse Stephanie. Superdoc hubby played the strong silent type. Also present at the $200-a-pop pouring was hospital president Silas …”

I’d bet my paycheck that Superdoc refused to talk to Babe and the burden of making nice fell on his wife’s skinny shoulders. No wonder she looked ready to scream.

I wouldn’t learn anything if I stood with the other media outside the late doctor’s office. The press would get the usual spokesperson statements. But I knew someone who could tell me about Dr. Brentmoor—Valerie Cannata, the red-haired chemo nurse I’d seen at the Heart’s Desire. She worked at Moorton.

I left a note with city desk that I was checking out a chemo nurse who knew Brentmoor. It took me twenty minutes to drive to Moorton and park. Cop cars, evidence vans, and ambulances clogged the street between the hospital and the Doc in the Box building. I finally found a meter spot on a distant side street and hiked to the chemo ward. The hospital had spread through this pleasant residential neighborhood like cancer. Old brick homes were torn down for parking lots. Other houses were converted into medical offices. Some of the old lawns and gardens still survived, and they were so alive on this hot spring day, I could almost hear the new plants pushing through the ground and the leaves unfolding. Everything smelled green and new and sun-warmed. Then I reached the hospital. The automatic doors opened like a maw, and I stepped into cold air and
the sickly smell of chemicals. If it turned my stomach, what must it do to Georgia?

I could tell it was a bad day in the chemo ward. The waiting room was full of people who looked grumpy as well as sick. The nurses were rushing around, not smiling. I asked for Valerie, and after five minutes, she came to the front desk. She looked worn and worried. Even her bouncy red hair seemed tired. “Something wrong with Georgia?” she said.

“Georgia’s fine, Valerie. I wanted to ask you about the doctor who got shot this noon. I need to get an idea what he was like.” The patients elaborately riffled through magazines and industriously read paperbacks, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Francesca,” she said, “this place is in an uproar, the patients are upset, and we’re running an hour behind.”

“It’s two-twenty,” I said. “I bet you haven’t had lunch yet. You won’t help anybody if you pass out from hunger. I’ll buy.”

“Deal. I’ll meet you at the hospital cafeteria in fifteen minutes. But I can’t stay long.”

It was more like twenty minutes by the time she showed up. The cafeteria offered fried fish, fried chicken, burgers and fries, a salad bar loaded with ranch dressing, cheese and croutons, twelve kinds of cakes and pies, and an ice cream sundae bar. I wondered why hospitals always served unhealthy food. Valerie wanted fried chicken, cherry pie a la mode, and a large diet Coke. I settled for a virtuous bottle of water. I’d reached my grease quota at the airport.

I recognized chemo patients at other tables. Some were drinking white soda and picking at packages of
crackers. The ones with steady stomachs were wolfing down chocolate cake and other sweet treats. Or maybe the hearty eaters were the caregivers.

“I figure you know all the chemo doctors,” I said.

Valerie nodded her head yes and took a hungry bite of bird.

“I’m not going to quote you. I just want some background. What was Dr. Brentmoor like?”

“A real bastard,” she said, between mouthfuls.

“A bad doctor?”

“He was okay. His five-year survival rates were as good as any oncologist’s at Moorton, and maybe better than some. Some oncologists are caring and compassionate. They are special people. Then there are the Brentmoors.

“George Brentmoor had the compassion of Dr. Mengele. Last week, I had a man come by for his chemo shot. I was really worried about this guy. He was doubled over with cramps. I called Brentmoor’s office and explained. I thought he’d want to see him. Instead, he told me to have the patient get Imodium A-D, an over-the-counter medicine, and have the man call in the morning if he was still in pain. To me, that’s like handing a Band-Aid to someone who’s hemorrhaging, but I’m only a nurse, so I didn’t say anything. But I was right. His wife had to take him to the Emergency Room that night, where they gave him a prescription for pain medication. Dr. Brentmoor could have saved him the four-hour ER wait. But he didn’t want to be bothered.

“I had another chemo patient, a single mom trying to hold down a job at a bank and take care of her little girl. She was having problems with nausea. She
asked if he could do anything else to relieve the symptoms. You know what he told her? ‘What did you expect? I told you chemo would be tough. Be glad you can still function at your job.’

“That was his attitude: ‘Chemo’s supposed to be tough. Don’t bother me.’ He had no sympathy for his patients’ suffering. He didn’t want to hear it. If they asked questions that made him uncomfortable, like, ‘What are my chances of recovery?’ he’d walk out of the room. End of consultation. It upset his patients. They thought they’d done something wrong, when it was really him.

“Patients always want to know their chances, like they’re betting on a horse race. You try to give them something positive to focus on during treatment. You say, Your white blood cell count is good this week. Or, You’re not losing weight. Or, These symptoms are caused by the chemotherapy, they don’t mean you are getting worse.

“But you know what Brentmoor told a man who asked what his chances were? He said, ‘It’s in the hands of God.’ The patient said, ‘So why is my insurance company paying you the big bucks? I could go to a priest for free.’ ”

“I’m surprised Brentmoor would say that,” I said. “He sounds like the kind of doctor who thinks he’s God.”

“He’s a jerk,” she said. “I should say he
was
a jerk.”

“You don’t seem to have many regrets that he’s dead.”

“Just one,” she said, finishing the last of her pie. “It’s too bad he didn’t suffer as much as his patients.”

Brrrrrr. I was thoroughly chilled, and it wasn’t just the hospital air-conditioning. Even the
Gazette
felt
warm and homey after Valerie’s description of Dr. Brentmoor. For once, I was glad to be back at the newsroom. I could see Tina pounding the computer keys, her high pecan-colored brow furrowed in concentration. She was the reason the
Gazette
hired so few African American women: she was glamorous, smart, said exactly what she thought, and refused to sleep with management to advance her career. An uncooperative troublemaker, by Charlie’s standards. I always wondered why she stayed, until I met her boyfriend. A hunk. The minute his brokerage firm transferred him out of St. Louis, she was out of here.