Playing God (5 page)

The doctor's geniality vanished. Bailey was used to being the one who controlled conversations, gave the orders. Cordial as all get out so long as no one trod on his toes. Burgess had just stomped. "I don't know what you're getting at, but you won't find his killer here," Bailey said. "No one had any reason to harm Stephen. Besides, why stab the man when we could find more subtle methods?"

Stabbed? He hadn't mentioned how Pleasant had died, though it might have traveled through hospital gossip.

"I suggest you look among the hookers he was so fond of," Bailey said.

"Why don't you tell me more about that?"

"About what?"

"Dr. Pleasant and the hookers." It sounded like the title of a play.

"There's nothing for me to tell," Bailey said. "Steve didn't talk about his personal life. We had a professional relationship." His foot tapped restlessly against the plastic rug protector.

"You brought it up, doctor. And you knew him well enough to know his wife."

"Of course I know my partner's wives," Bailey said. "And Jen's mother was one of my patients. I've known the family a long time."

"One of your patients? Not one of Dr. Pleasant's?"

"Steve couldn't have dated her if her mother was his patient. That would have been unethical."

"But you can date each other's patients or their family members?"

"Theoretically," Bailey said sourly. "But everyone in the practice is married."

Burgess nodded. Most of his time gone and he hadn't learned much, except the unsaid. Bailey hadn't thought much of his difficult colleague in or out of the office. Hadn't approved of his dating Jen Kelly. And wanted to keep Pleasant's sleazy personal life from coming back at the rest of them.

"You went to their wedding?" Bailey nodded. "Was Dr. Pleasant still married when he met Ms. Kelly?"

"No."

So much for complete cooperation. No big deal. He'd never looked at his job as a popularity contest. He worked for the victims. The dead. "Getting back to Pleasant's hookers. How do you know about that?"

Bailey shrugged. "You hear things. Portland's nothing more than a big small town."

"Hear things from whom?"

"Jesus!" The word hissed out. "You know. Around."

"I don't know. I know how information travels through Portland's drug community. How it moves through the bars. I know where to find a hooker. But I don't know how information travels through your community. We don't have a lot of physicians murdered."

"I should hope not." Burgess waited. "Hell, I don't know. Staff room or cafeteria gossip. Cocktail parties?" He shrugged again, an angry shifting of his big shoulders. "You hear things, that's all."

"It could be important." Bailey didn't respond. "When you heard he was dead, you immediately assumed he'd been killed by a hooker?"

Dr. Bailey carefully added another magnet to the structure he was building. "Or her pimp. Some low-life type who'd prey on a prosperous looking man in the wrong place at the wrong time. A matter of opportunity, detective. Stephen was pursuing a stupid and dangerous lifestyle..."

"And the thought that followed?"

"That it would be pretty sordid. I hoped it wouldn't reflect too negatively on the practice."

"About the practice. You say you all worked independently?" Bailey nodded. "So was it an eat what you kill kind of thing, or was there profit sharing?"

"A little of each."

"Each of you carried your own malpractice insurance?"

"Yes."

Burgess made a note to look into the insurance. "You said Dr. Pleasant was a competent physician. Was he liked by his patients?"

Bailey pinched a magnet between blunt fingers. "I didn't hear many complaints."

"Had there ever been malpractice suits against him?" A shrug. "Any threats of suits, or matters which were settled to avoid lawsuits?"

Bailey hesitated. "Maybe you'd better talk to our lawyer."

"Why did you hesitate, doctor?"

"You always this big a pain in the ass?"

"Usually." It had been his experience that most doctors were neutral to nice until you pressed them. They felt put upon and oppressed, especially the older ones. It must be hard to start out believing you were God and receiving God-like deference, only to have the whole climate change. "Why did you hesitate?" Bailey didn't respond. "The lawyer. Will he be willing to talk or am I going to run into a stonewall of confidentiality?"

"She. Martha McFarland. Marty. I don't know about the confidentiality thing. You'll have to ask her." He scribbled something and shoved it across the desk.

Burgess examined it carefully. Doctors earned their reputation for bad handwriting. He printed the lawyer's name above the scrawl and repeated the number. Bailey nodded.

"Who are the other doctors in your practice?" Bailey answered by handing him a card. "What about staff? Who worked most closely with Dr. Pleasant, who would be likely to know his schedule?"

"Betty Ling was his appointments secretary. You could start with her. Chris Perlin was his nurse."

"That's here? And Betty Ling can give me information about the other offices?" Bailey nodded. "Getting back to the hookers. It was common knowledge?" Bailey nodded again, looking pained. "You ever see him with a hooker?"

"He didn't bring them into the hospital, detective."

"Any idea how frequently he solicited hookers?" A shrug. "Did you regard it as a serious problem? Was it impacting his work?" Bailey didn't answer. "Did you ever talk to him about his fondness for hookers?"

"Of course not."

"Who were Pleasant's friends on the staff?"

The doctor jerked up his sleeve and studied his watch. "He didn't..." Reconsidered. "Tony Stavros and Jon Shorter were golf buddies. Paul Conklin was his rabbi."

"His rabbi?"

"Advisor. Confidant. His guru."

"Where do I find these people?"

"Stavros is in oncology, they worked closely together. Shorter is an internist. Conklin is a surgeon." Bailey stood up. "I'm sorry. We're out of time. I have patients."

Complete cooperation. Burgess stayed in his seat. "When was the last time you saw him?"

Bailey headed for the door. "Yesterday afternoon, five, five-thirty, maybe."

"What was he doing?"

"Standing by the reception desk. On the phone. I was on my way out. I waved. He waved."

"That's your normal time to leave?"

An impatient twitch. "It varies."

"And for Dr. Pleasant?"

"He worked long hours. He was ambitious. Financially ambitious."

"Were any of the other doctors still here?"

"You'd have to ask them. They don't necessarily leave at five. If you have further questions..."

"Did anyone in the practice, or here in the hospital, speak with Dr. Pleasant about picking up prostitutes?" Dr. Bailey shook his head. "Was there anything else about Dr. Pleasant's lifestyle that might have put him at risk?" A vehement and totally unconvincing "no." Reluctantly, Burgess put his notebook away. He wouldn't get in the door as easily next time. "Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Dr. Pleasant?"

"Of course not. When you see Jen, please tell her..."

Coward. You're her friend. She sees me, it's not going to be for comfort. "You should call her. She'd appreciate your support. Thanks for the help." He left Bailey staring after him, probably wondering if he was being sarcastic. Let him wonder. Stopped at the desk to get addresses for the other offices.

Ten minutes for coffee before driving to Augusta. Portland was the biggest city in Maine, two hours north of Boston except in the summer, when the road clogged with tourists, but the medical examiner was in the state capital. Forty-five minutes north on a good day. Today looked like a good day. Following the cop's rule—eat when you can—he grabbed coffee and a sandwich in the cafeteria. That was the difference between a veteran and a rookie. Remy Aucoin wouldn't have been able to eat before an autopsy. Burgess wasn't so cold he could eat while watching, but it had been a while since he'd lost his lunch.

He detoured by the scene and snapped a picture of the empty space, trampled snow, yellow tape flapping in the wind. It was something that he always did. That empty space represented what he needed to fill in. Then he headed north.

Chapter 4

The Portland forensics officers were just finishing up when he arrived. Dani Letorneau, engulfed by her lab coat and barely recognizable in a shower cap and face mask, nodded and said, "Good thing a Mercedes has a big front seat. Looks like this guy was having a party." Her eyes were tired from the up-close and eye-intensive work.

"Party?"

"Curly black hairs. Long blonde hairs. And two shades of lipstick around his nipples and on his penis. Looks like a party to me. Unless it was one woman with weird hair who went from vampire blood black to demure pink lipstick in mid-stream. So to speak. No wonder he was still standing hours later."

"Saliva?"

"Most likely. We've taken swabs. Maybe some vaginal secretions. Swabbed a pubic hair out of his mouth. And we got a ton of stuff off the car. Prints. Hair. Fibers. Been better if he hadn't had leather seats, but at least he didn't have leather carpet. Funny thing is, he doesn't seem to have fought back. I'm not finding anything under his nails. Not on this hand, anyway. No scratches or defensive wounds of any kind. I'll be curious about what toxicology shows." She raised an eyebrow. "Roofies, maybe?"

Rohypnol, the date rape drug, wasn't often used on men. What did that suggest? A hooker with drug connections? Someone with a medical background? Premeditation? Wink Devlin, the other ET, paused in his meticulous scraping of the fingernails on the other hand. "Does toxicology pick up Viagra?"

"Jerk," Dani said. "Kyle tell you his wallet was missing?"

Burgess shook his head, idly watching her finish with Pleasant's hand. Suddenly he bent forward. "What about these marks on his wrist? You got marks over there, Wink?"

Devlin scrutinized the arm, turning it carefully as he inspected it. "Maybe something here. Hold on." He laid the arm on the table and walked to the other end, bending to inspect the ankles. "I don't know, Dani. What do you think?"

"Morning, everyone. Interesting case you've brought me." Dr. Andrew Lee, the assistant medical examiner, burst through the door, grabbed some gloves, and came up to the body, followed by his silent assistant. He always moved at least twice as fast as everyone else. Sometimes too fast for a Downeast sensibility. People in Maine took their time. Send him to LA or Baltimore, where the bodies piled up in heaps and he'd have 'em sorted out in a week. Still, he didn't miss much and was a brilliant witness. More than one defense attorney had made the mistake of treating this suave New York City native like someone just off the boat.

"My turn?" Lee asked, eyeing the metal rod. "I can't wait to see this thing..."

"Two minutes," Devlin said.

"Take a look at his wrists and ankles," Burgess said. "Looks like he might have been tied up."

"In his Mercedes?"

"Maybe it was a busy evening."

Dr. Lee inspected the wrists and ankles. "Very subtle," he said. "Good catch, Joe. You guys check the wrists and ankles for fibers? I doubt if it was rope. More likely it was something silky—scarves or curtain ties, something like that. By the way, you catch that fistful of blonde hair? I were you, I'd be looking for a woman with a bald spot."

"We got the hairs," Devlin said. "Just about had to break his hand to get 'em. He didn't want to let go."

Burgess looked at the man laid out on the table. Was body-type a kind of destiny? He'd been big and bulky by age 13, automatically steered into football. Pleasant had a compact, efficient runner's body. He hadn't asked Jen Kelly about her husband's habits, but would bet the man was compulsive about exercise and finicky about his diet. A man who would be particular about everything he put in his mouth, and considerably less so about the part of himself he put into other's mouths.

An ugly thought. He scratched absently at his shoulder as he watched Devlin shooting close-ups of the faint abrasions. He needed a shower and a shave and a few hours off his feet. Didn't know when he'd get them.