Family Practice (21 page)

“I'm sorry, Mr. Ackerbaugh. She's busy right now.”

“Where is she? I want to see her.”

“Is there a problem?” Susan asked.

“Who're you?”

“Chief Wren.” She shoved her ID at him.

He glanced at it, his eyes flicked over her, his brain registered cop, and he pulled back on his anger.

“You have a complaint?”

“Got a right. Doctor didn't know what she was doing. Kid is still sick.”

“What kid?”

“My boy.”

“You think Dorothy made your child sick?”

“Got two others. Nothing wrong with them.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“All they do is explain. Kid's not any better. I told Dorothy, he didn't get better, I was gonna sue. Tests!” His anger got away from him again, and he slapped a hand against the paper on the counter. “Always more tests. Trying to cover up.”

“Cover up what?”

“Negligence, incompetence.”

The door leading into the inner offices opened. “What is it?” Marlitta caught sight of Ackerbaugh, and emotions—fatigue, anxiety, maybe irritation—chased across her face before she collected herself. “Mr. Ackerbaugh, is something wrong?”

“Yeah, something's wrong.” He crumpled the paper in his fist and shook it. “More tests. I'm damn sick and tired of tests.”

Marlitta glanced at Susan, then back at Ackerbaugh. “Why don't you come into my office and we'll talk about it?”

“No more talk. No more tests.” He flung the paper at her and turned on his heel.

Marlitta closed her eyes and exhaled a long sigh. Moving slowly, she went along the hallway to her office. Susan followed.

Marlitta slumped in the chair, elbows on the desk, hands on her cheeks.

“What was that all about?” Susan asked.

Marlitta stood up immediately, resting a hand on the desk to steady herself. “Oh, dear,” she said with a long-suffering smile. “Some people simply expect a doctor to know with a look what the problem is. They can't seem to understand that doctors aren't magicians. We need to find out the symptoms and sometimes run tests.”

“What's wrong with his baby?”

“That's what the tests are for.”

“Necessary tests?”

With the condescension of the overworked physician, she said, “If we're going to know how to treat the child, yes.”

“Was it Ackerbaugh who threatened Dorothy?”

Startled, Marlitta drew her head back. “Of course not.”

“How can you be sure?”

Marlitta's mind seemed to tick over slowly. Either she'd forgotten she'd mentioned the threatening call, or there never was a call in the first place.

“It wasn't Winslow Ackerbaugh.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“I cannot discuss a patient.”

Doctors and lawyers. Whenever they didn't want to answer, they claimed confidentiality.

Debra was collecting her purse to leave for lunch when Susan got back to her.

“Before you go,” Susan said. “Where can I find your husband?”

Debra pressed the purse to her chest as she turned around. “Why do you want him?”

“I need to talk with him.”

Horror washed across her face. “He didn't,” she whispered. “No. He wouldn't.”

“Where was he on Saturday?”

“I don't know. He said he was going to Emerson to study.”

“What time did he come home?”

“I don't remember. Maybe around four o'clock.” Debra's fingers made tiny scratching movements on the leather bag. “He didn't do it. He would never do anything like that.”

“Doesn't he have a temper? Yell at you? Hit you?”

“Of course not!”

“Never?”

“Sometimes he gets upset. Everybody does sometimes.”

“What makes him upset?”

Debra shook her head. “He has a lot on his mind. Studying and classes. Worry about money. Sometimes I forget. If I'd be more understanding—”

Like all battered wives. “Where can I find him?”

“At Emerson. He has classes.”

17

S
USAN CRUISED ALONG
Learned Street checking house numbers. According to the phone book, the Ackerbaughs lived at 829. She spotted it and pulled up in front: a neat white frame house with a wide porch, a picket fence, roses climbing up a trellis on the side.

A young woman opened the door, with two little boys, maybe four and five, clinging to each side of her flowered skirt and a baby less than a year old in her arms.

“Mrs. Ackerbaugh?” Susan flipped open her ID.

Linette Ackerbaugh stood silent and motionless in her doorway, and stared.

The little boys grinned and started dancing around like friendly puppies, looked up expectantly at their mother, and tugged at her skirt. “Mommy, mommy. A pretty lady. Let her in.”

The baby, clutching at her faded blue T-shirt, was barefoot, and a tiny pair of sneakers dangled from her hand. He was a beautiful child with lots of dark, curly hair and large, dark eyes. Compared with the two older boys, he was pale and seemed listless, the eyes not alight with interest and mischief

“I'm Chief Wren.”

The woman's lips rounded as if she was about to say, “Oh,” but she didn't. She didn't move, didn't glance at the ID, simply stared.

“Mrs. Ackerbaugh?” Susan stuck her ID in her bag. The rain dripped dismally over the eaves, and the damp air held the sweet scent of roses. Linette Ackerbaugh didn't seem to want to look at Susan's face; instead she seemed fascinated by her gray linen pants. They were creased and wrinkled as linen will do once you sit down, but when a cop turned up on your doorstep, the attention-grabber wasn't generally the cop's apparel.

“Mom-mee!”

“You are Linette Ackerbaugh?”

She blinked, shaking off her fugue, and her eyes softened. “Yes, of course, I'm Linette.” She made hesitant steps around the boys, dropped a sneaker, and smiled with embarrassment. Holding the baby tight, she stooped to grab the sneaker, overbalanced, and did an awkward shuffle to recoup. She tenderly cupped a hand behind the baby's head.

There was a sweetness about her, and she moved with the leggy, awkward charm of a colt. Her hair, honey and satin, was pulled back in a ribbon. She was all delicate and light. Hard to picture her married to lumbering, heavy-handed Winslow and his practical world of sewer pipes. She was staring again. Her eyes were blue-green, the color of the ocean on a sunny day; their expression said, “Oh, no, why have you come?”

“Mrs. Ackerbaugh?”

“Linette, please.” She smiled, suddenly friendly, easy.

“You know about Dr. Barrington, Dorothy Barrington?”

“Oh.” The smile vanished; her eyebrows, which slanted slightly up like a bird's wings, got furrows between them. “I couldn't believe it.”

Susan had been a cop for a long time, and she'd heard that line over and over when dealing with the bereaved, the angry, the bewildered, but there was something not right about Linette Ackerbaugh. It wasn't the usual dazed, trying to comprehend terrible reality, but a sort of searching for the correct reaction. Instead of a routine interview, just covering all the bases, Susan went on full alert. Something was going on here.

“Mom-mee!” Little hands yanked at Linette's skirt.

“Oh. Yes. Would you like to come in?”

The boys scampered ahead, and Susan followed Linette through a living room with toys scattered across the carpet to a spacious kitchen. She accepted an offer of iced tea, partly because she hoped saying yes would encourage Linette to relax and talk, and partly to give herself an opportunity to get a fix on the woman.

With one hand, Linette cleared toys and plates and glasses from the table. The little boys stuck close to Susan, asking her name and where she lived and whether she liked to swim. They had a friend who had a swimming pool. They patted her hands, patted her arms, patted her knees, patted her shoulder bag.

Linette got ice-cream bars from the freezer, gave one to each boy, and shooed them off to a screened porch. They raced out with shrieks of joy.

Susan sat back and waited to see what Linette would reveal. Still holding the baby, who hadn't made one peep, Linette got down glasses, took a full pitcher from the refrigerator, poured tea, and handed a glass across the table.

“I'm sorry you missed Win. He just left.”

Susan had counted on it. Linette sat down and settled the baby in her lap.

“Your husband is angry about the medical treatment the baby's been receiving,” Susan said.

“He's worried. They keep doing tests and not finding out what's wrong.”

“He made some threats to Dorothy Barrington.”

“It's only his way.” Linette got stopped by a memory; her eyes narrowed in an attempt to prevent tears. She curled a wisp of the baby's hair around one finger. “He doesn't think a whole lot of doctors, and he feels if we'd just stop coddling him he'd be all right.”

The pronouns got a little mixed, but Susan followed along with no problem. “You feel that way too?”

The softness in Linette's eyes turned fierce. “If I did, I wouldn't be taking him there, would I?”

“Can you tell me where you were Saturday afternoon?”

Linette smiled, all softness and sunshine again. “Three children and pouring-down rain? Where do you think? Right here.”

“And your husband?”

“At work.”

Squabbles broke out on the porch. Linette stood up. Susan stepped in front of her. “Mrs. Ackerbaugh, what are you hiding?”

“Why would I hide anything? I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes. You do. And you need to tell me what it is. Because I need to know—and I intend to find out.”

“No. The boys. I need to— Excuse me.”

“Mrs. Ackerbaugh—”

“There's nothing.” Linette dashed out to the screened porch.

Susan went back to the department and picked up Parkhurst. The rain had stopped; the sun shone fiercely, causing steam to rise from the rooftops, and the Bronco simmered in the heat. Parkhurst cranked the window down and shrugged off his jacket, started up the motor, and headed for campus.

As they were rolling along Iowa, a heavyset woman in orange pants rushed out, waving her arms. Parkhurst stopped, and she darted to the window.

“You've got to help me.”

“What's the problem, ma'am?”

“Snake. In my car. This long.” She sketched out three and a half feet.

“Where's your car?”

She gestured at a white Ford in the driveway. “I just came out of my house to get in, and I saw this snake. It crawled straight up the wheel. The left one, the rear. Oh, my God, do you think it got inside?” She patted her chest as an aid in catching her breath.

“No, ma'am. There's no way it could have gotten inside.”

“You have to get it out.”

Parkhurst looked at Susan. She just turned in her feminist badge, all of a sudden struck by the conviction there were some things a man ought to do. He pulled to the curb and cut the motor. Susan got out when he did and trudged at his heels.

“Would you release the hood, ma'am?”

She handed him the keys. “I'm not getting in that car.”

He unlocked the Ford, popped the latch, then went around and raised the hood. The woman stood well back, jittering from one foot to the other. Susan understood the impulse. She stuck to Parkhurst's side while he looked, moving back and forth, bending and peering. She wondered whether she should draw her weapon. She'd never shot a snake before, never dealt with snakebite either. How fast could she get the Bronco to the emergency room?

“I don't see it, ma'am.”

Susan didn't either, nothing but a jumble of hoses.

“It must have gotten out.”

“No. I would have seen it. It's there.”

Parkhurst peered around some more, went to the Bronco, and came back with a burlap bag.

“See it?” Susan asked.

He gave her the bag. “Tucked above the fuel lines, snug against them. Hold the bag open.”

Oh, Lord, give her an armed and dangerous anytime. She rolled down the top of the bag and held it wide. He leaned in, shot her a look, and made a snatch. He pulled. Long, rusty-black snake. Jesus, at least three and a half feet. He'd grabbed it just behind the head. It whipped and lashed. He dropped it in the bag. Lightning quick, she knotted the top.

The woman trotted up, gushing thanks. He yanked on the knot, just making sure, and gingerly lowered it into the Bronco. They drove to the river. Little beads of sweat dotted his hairline. When he opened the bag and dumped the snake, it slithered away through tall weeds.

“Poisonous?” she asked.

“Oh, hell, no. Rat snake.” A sickly grin touched his mouth. “Unless it was a copperhead.”

*   *   *

A receptionist in the administration building directed them to Parker Hall; Ed Cole was in the biology lab. They meandered along wet pathways and located Parker Hall just as classes broke. Students poured from the building.

“You know him?” Susan asked.

“Over there.” Parkhurst nodded at a slender young man in khaki pants and an open-collared white shirt chatting with a group of classmates at the foot of the stairs.

Like any good partners, they worked with much reliance on instinct, not needing verbal cues. That's what happened here. Parkhurst spoke; she hung around with her mouth shut. “Ed Cole?”

“Yeah?”

Parkhurst held out his ID. “Talk to you a minute?”

Ed's eyes slid from Parkhurst to Susan and back to Parkhurst. The classmates drifted away with murmurs of “Catch you later.”

“What's this about?” Cole squinted at them. Blond, clean-cut, wholesome. Every inch the college student. Not a kid to make a mother's heart quaver if her daughter went out with him.

“You want to tell us where you were on Saturday at one o'clock?” Parkhurst said.