Natural Causes (44 page)

“Please, no!” she cried.

The man on top of her thrust his pelvis tightly onto her buttocks. Then he grabbed her hair in his fist and forced her face into the pillow. An instant later she felt a sharp, needle-stick pain in the back of her scalp.

“Please!” she cried again. “Please, no!”

Her voice was muffled in the soft, feather pillow. Seconds later, a tidal wave of dizziness and nausea washed over her. Her arms and legs began to shake violently. Her breathing grew heavy. The man remained on top of her, although he no longer had to work to hold her down. She was helpless and fighting a rapidly losing battle to maintain consciousness—a losing battle to remain alive.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please.”

This time there was no sound. No sound at all. Her thoughts quickly dispersed, and the darkness grew even more oppressive. For a few seconds she could hear the gurgle of air being sucked desperately into her lungs. Then that sound, too, disappeared. Relentlessly the oppressive darkness consumed her. Then suddenly, mercifully, her terror vanished.

I
T WAS NEARING SIX WHEN
R
OSA ARRIVED BACK AT THE
Brookline apartment building that had, until about two years before, been the home of Warren Fezler. She had interviewed as many of the building’s residents as would answer their doorbells and had then returned to BIO-Vir to see if there was anyone they might have missed who could add to what little she had learned of the man. By and large, her efforts had been fruitless.

According to the few neighbors with whom Rosa had been able to speak, Fezler had been a quiet, most unobtrusive tenant until one day he simply did not return home. His furniture had been put in storage and eventually auctioned off. The secretary at the rental agency swore that no rental application was ever thrown out for at least five years after a tenant moved away. But apparently Warren Fezler’s was an exception. Rosa glanced up at the apartment building. It was dinnertime.
Perhaps people were home now at some of the no-answers
. Perhaps one of those she had interviewed had remembered something. Suarez-type thoroughness demanded one more crack at the neighbors. And before she quit for the
day, she knew she would do it. But reluctant to start ringing doorbells again, she wandered off through the gathering evening, searching for some other move that made sense.

Details
, she thought, as she headed absently down the street.
Think about the man.… Think about Warren Fezler
. She had already passed by the smallish, upscale market when she stopped. The air outside the market was rich with the aroma of fresh breads, cut flowers, and bins of fruits.
Food!
Judging from the descriptions of Fezler, prior to his remarkable transformation he had been 230 pounds or more. Food would quite possibly have been at the epicenter of his life. And if so, a gourmet market not a block from his home would have been the equivalent of a hangout.

Rosa started with the cashiers and worked her way through the employees in the store. With the fourth person she questioned, an older man working behind the meat counter, she hit pay dirt.

“Course I know Warren,” the butcher said. “He was about the nicest guy who ever came in this place. A real sweetheart. Never talked much—he had that speech thing, you know. But he’d give you the shirt off his back.”

“Has he been in recently?”

“Not for a while. A few months, maybe. Probably not since sometime this past summer.”

A few months
. Fezler had left his apartment two years ago, yet he continued coming to this little market.

“Any idea why he stopped shopping here, or where I might find him?” Rosa asked.

“Nope. But I’ll bet Mrs. Richardson knows. She’s a sweet old lady. Can’t see much, and can’t walk too well neither. I don’t think she has anyone. Warren used to bring her groceries to her to save her a little money. Since he stopped coming around, we’ve had to deliver. Poor old gal. Three dollars a bag hurts someone like her.”

“Bull’s-eye!” Rosa said.

Fifteen minutes later, she was brewing tea and straightening out the kitchen of Elsie Richardson. The spinster, who certainly was ninety and very possibly much older than that, lived in a cluttered two-room basement apartment with three cats, none of whom seemed any younger than she did. She moved with excruciating slowness on swollen feet and ankles, and had only enough vision to make it about her place. But she seemed somehow to be managing. And her mental clarity was spiced with surprising wit.

“It’s
Miss
, not Mrs.,” she had corrected Rosa. “I kept waiting to marry a man who was smarter than I was, and he never came along … at least not until Mr. Fezler.

“It’s so nice to hear Mr. Fezler’s all right,” she said now. “He hasn’t called in weeks.”

“I don’t know if he’s all right or not, Miss Richardson. I’m trying to find him.”

“I take a little lemon and sugar, dear. The lemon’s on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Left-hand side. I know where
that
is, but I don’t know where Mr. Fezler is. He never said. Such a kind man. Do you know how we met? I fell, that’s how. Right in front of the market. He helped me up and brushed me off. And that was the last time I had to go out to the store. Six dollars a week. That’s what he saved me. To say nothing of the money he
gave
me. I tried to refuse, but he just left it anyway.”

“He sounds like quite a guy,” Rosa said, flashing on the horrible descriptions of the women who died of DIC. “Miss Richardson, is there any place he might have gone if—if he was in some trouble? Any friends or relatives?”

“None that I can … wait. He has a sister. Her name is … Mary. No, no, not Mary. Martha. ‘My sister Martha.’ He talked about her all the time like that. I can’t believe that I didn’t remember. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re doing wonderfully, Miss Richardson,” Rosa
said, setting a tea biscuit on the woman’s saucer. “Was Martha’s last name Fezler, do you know?”

“No. I’m afraid I—” She suddenly brightened. “The calendar,” she said.

“Calendar?”

“Mr. Fezler said it was from his sister’s place. He gave it to me because the numbers are big. He hung it up for me, too. But I’m afraid I never look at it. It’s in there, dear.”

She pointed through her bedroom door. The calendar, hanging on a side wall, had a photo of a huge-breasted, platinum blond model on the top half. She was scantily clad in skin-tight overall shorts and was holding a gasoline can. Printed on the calendar was:

The address of the shop, printed at the very bottom, was in Gloucester, a city Rosa knew was thirty or so miles north of Boston. She wrote it and the phone number down. Then she straightened up the bedroom as best she could, gave Elsie Richardson a hug and twenty dollars, and headed back to her rooming house. If Martha Fezler was not actually hiding her brother, she knew where he was. Every ounce of intuition was telling her so.

Rosa walked to the closest thoroughfare and flagged a cab. She felt elated. Soon, very soon, her career as an epidemiologist would be over. But not before the ghost of BART was at last laid to rest.

•  •  •

“Ruth, hi, it’s Matt. I’m sorry to call you at home.”

“That’s all right. How did your session with Mr. Mallon go?”

“They’re dropping the Baldwin suit.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Just wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Ruth, listen. I’m at the Medical Center of Boston and I can’t find Sarah. Have you heard from her?”

“Yes. She called just before I left, an hour or so ago. I put the message on your desk. She said she’s not going to be on duty tonight. She’s staying at the hospital until six or so and will be home after that. She sounded upset.”

“From what I’ve been able to learn, she has reason to be. Thanks, Ruth. I’ll see you tomorrow. And thanks for getting my office cleaned up.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“No. You switched the phone over to the answering machine?”

“I
always
do that, Mr. Daniels.”

“I know, I know. Good night, Ruth. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Matt set down the pay phone receiver and glanced about the busy lobby area. It was six-thirty. Sarah said she would be leaving the hospital at six. But her new bicycle was still chained outside. She had not answered her Motorola page, nor had she responded to two separate voice pages by the hospital operator. A call to her apartment had gotten only her answering machine, and there were no messages from her on the one at his home.

Something significant and unpleasant had occurred involving Sarah and a patient. Matt had learned that much, although no one around MCB seemed anxious to share details. Apparently, she was being asked to take a leave from the hospital. Glenn Paris, to whom Matt had been referred for details, had been tied up in some sort of emergency meeting. Now, feeling more anxious and uncomfortable by the moment, Matt again sought the CEO out in his Thayer Building office.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Paris is tied up on a call,” his harried secretary said.

“Break in. Tell him it’s Matt Daniels, and that it’s an emergency.”

“But—”

“Do it, please. Or I’ll do it myself.”

Less than a minute later, he was ushered into Paris’s inner office.

“You can’t possibly think she would do such a thing,” Matt exclaimed, after Paris recounted the events surrounding Annalee Ettinger. “Mallon and the Graysons have dropped the malpractice suit against her completely. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Look, all I know is that this hospital has received more negative publicity in the last six months than in the previous six years. And your client is involved in virtually every bit of it. We had to put her on leave until the dust settles and we can sort out what’s happened.”

“Isn’t it clear what’s happened? Somebody’s tried to frame her.”

“For Sarah’s sake, I hope that’s true. I like her, Daniels. I really do. But as things stand, we have to take action that’s in the best interest of the Medical Center of Boston and our patients. There are a good number of people on our medical staff and board of trustees who think that she is a very sick and dangerous person.”

“That’s utter nonsense.”

“I hope so. But at this point, there’s nothing I can, or want to, do.”

“Listen, Sarah hasn’t answered her page for the past hour. Do you have any idea where she might be now?”

“No.”

“You’ve made a mistake,” Matt said.

“As I said, I hope so,” Paris responded.

Matt was already heading out the door. He made another pass through his office and home answering machines, and left another message on hers. Then he called
the hospital operator, who again attempted to reach Sarah by her beeper and the hospital-wide loudspeaker system.

“Tell me,” Matt asked, “when you can’t get hold of residents who are supposed to be on duty, what’s usually going on?”

“That doesn’t happen very often,” the woman said.

“But when it does.”

“Our Motorolas have a display window, but they also can be voice activated. Usually, if a resident is on call and doesn’t respond, their page unit is defective, and they’re asleep in the house officers’ quarters. They wouldn’t be able to hear me on the overhead. There is none there. We use the room phones.”

“Where are those rooms? Can you call them?”

“Thayer Building. Fourth and fifth floor. But I can’t call every room. There are about twenty or twenty-five of them.”

“Look,” Matt said. “Just in case, could you please keep paging Dr. Baldwin over her beeper every couple of minutes. Use the voice mode. It’s very, very important. You’ve got my name in case she calls in. I’ll check back with you shortly. And thank you.… Thank you very much.”

She’s gone for a walk, or else she’s sleeping in one of the on-call rooms
, Matt told himself as he headed up to Thayer Four.
Either possibility makes perfect sense. She’s upset over what’s happened. A nap or a long walk. I’d do one or the other.… So would she.…

He began going from room to room, knocking on each door, then trying the knob. Most of the small on-call quarters were open and empty. Two rooms were locked, but in both, a sleepy voice responded to his knock. A third, though unlocked, was also occupied. The resident within, fully dressed, lying facedown, spread-eagle on the narrow bed, was so deeply asleep that he barely stirred when Matt knocked and entered.

You’ve got to really want it
, Matt thought, gazing down at the exhausted young physician. He closed the door with unnecessary care and headed up to the fifth floor. The sixth or seventh door he tried was locked. He knocked and waited for the expected sleepy response. There was none. He knocked again, this time a bit louder. Only visions of the spread-eagle man on the fourth floor kept him from kicking at the door. He decided to check the rest of the floor before knocking any more forcefully. But then, just as he was about to turn away, he heard a woman’s voice broadcasted from within the room.

“Dr. Baldwin. Dr. Sarah Baldwin. Please call the operator.… Dr. Baldwin. Dr. Sarah Baldwin, the operator please.”

“Sarah!” Matt cried out, kicking the base of the oak door with force. The retort, piercing as a gunshot, echoed down the empty corridor. “Sarah!”

Matt stepped back and rammed the sole of his shoe into the center of the door with all his strength. The wood split. A second kick opened a hole large enough for him to peer into the dimly lit room. Sarah was lying peacefully and motionless on the bed. Beside her, on a portable IV pole, a plastic intravenous bag was draining its solution into her arm. Matt reached through the hole and unlocked the door from within. Sarah was warm, but her color was poor. And she was not breathing.

He found a shut-off valve on the intravenous tubing and shut the infusion off. He hollered her name and checked her neck and wrist for a pulse. There was none that he could feel. He tilted her head back, pinched her nose closed, and tried several mouth-to-mouth breaths. After the third one, he thought he felt her jaw move. Again he cried out her name. Then, impulsively, he slapped her sharply across the face. She responded with a single, gurgling breath. He slapped her again. Again she took a breath.