So here he was. It was Saturday, and he was already weaving himself into the fabric of small-town life. Invigorated, he wanted to do something, get going. And then it occurred to him there was a call he needed to make.
The house wasn't much to look at. Could have used a coat of paint. About twenty years ago. The yard was dirt and yellowing grass with a couple of old lawn chairs, bleached by the sun, sitting in the middle. But what was there to view from here? The front yards of some other houses were equally run-down.
Not a great place for a medical doctor to retire. As Steve knocked on the front door, covered by a screen, he wondered if this could really be the right place.
It was late morning in Tehachapi, a high-desert town known primarily for its prison.
He knocked again. The guy who answered was not a medical-looking man. He wore a white T-shirt stretched out by an ample gut. Looked about forty, with brown hair worn long and stringy.
“Yeah?” he said through the screen.
“My name's Steve Conroy. I'm looking for a Dr. Walker Phillips.”
“Why?”
Not
who. Why.
Steve had hit pay dirt. “I have an urgent need for some information from an old autopsy he did. It involves a family member. My brother.”
Long pause. Then a shake of the head. “I don't think so.”
“Does he live here?”
“No.”
“But you know him.”
“So?”
“It's really important. I'm a lawyer, and I've come all this way â ”
“Look, all I know is Dr. Phillips used to live here. I don't know where he is now. He hasn't been around for, oh, a year.”
“A year?”
“Give or take.”
“Any idea where he went?”
The guy shook his head. “He said something about back east, but that's all I know.”
And all Steve knew was the feeling that this guy was not telling the truth. He took out his wallet, the one with Gincy's twin twenties in it. “If it'll help you remember,” Steve said, “I can make this a financial transaction.”
The door, which he'd almost shut, opened again. “What're you saying?”
“How's twenty bucks sound?”
“Insulting.”
“Forty?”
“No way.”
Steve shrugged and did the walk-away routine. He was two steps from the door when the guy said, “Okay.”
Back Steve came, fishing the bills out of his wallet. The guy opened the screen door and put his hand out.
“Information first,” Steve said.
“Out back,” he said.
“He lives here?”
The guy snatched the bills out of Steve's hand. “Listen, he's an old man who's drinking himself to death, right? He's got some sort of income and he pays me rent and just asks to be left alone. Every now and then I run some errand for him. I get him his food and his liquor. He doesn't do anybody any dirt. He's quiet. So don't go getting him all upset, okay?”
“Thanks.”
Steve went around the side of the house and walked down the driveway. The place was a small duplex. The back portion looked even more worn than the front. A small, square dwelling. Looked like it might have been the garage at one time. A place for an old car, not a dying old doctor.
He knocked on the door. Waited. The gray sky over the desert was rippling like an ocean of sludge. Probably a storm coming.
No answer so he knocked again. Waited again.
He put his ear to the door and listened. Didn't hear anything. He looked back at the main house and saw the T-shirt guy watching him from a back window.
Figuring he'd paid for the privilege, Steve tried the door.
It opened.
Dark inside, and stale. But there was enough light that Steve could make out a couple of items. Like the chair in the middle of the room with a body in it. And a TV in the corner that was on some NASCAR race, but with the sound off.
“Dr. Phillips?” Steve couldn't clearly see the man's face or eyes. The odor of hard liquor hit his nose. “Dr. Phillips?”
A grunt, and the head rolled along the back of the chair. Steve's eyes were adjusting and could make out a gaunt man. A gone man.
Steve looked around and found a lamp, turned it on. The interior was late-American mess. Empty glasses in various places, including the floor. A pair of scuffed black shoes by the door. The curtains on the windows had orange boats and green palm trees on them, as if to try to fool the occupant into a sense of tropical well-being. A stack of
National Geographic
s leaned precariously against a half-empty bookcase under one of the windows.
The man in the chair snorted. He was wearing wrinkled khaki pants, brown socks, and a light-yellow short-sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone. A tuft of pathetic white hair coiled from his chest. On the coffee table in front of him was a nearly empty bottle of Ancient Age.
“Who is it?” the man said, lifting his head finally and looking at Steve. The man blinked his rheumy eyes a few times.
“You're Dr. Phillips?”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who needs to talk to you.”
“Who let you in here?”
“The door was open.”
Phillips rubbed his eyes with his hands, then looked for the bottle, as if to reassure himself it was still there.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Steve asked.
“What are you doing in here?”
“If you'll let me explain â ”
“I don't want to talk to anyone.” He waved a bony arm. He tried to sit up and, tiring of the effort, slumped back in his chair.
“I have to talk to you, sir, I'm sorry. I won't be long. Just give me a minute and tell me what you can and I'll leave.”
A wisp of suspicion blew across his face. “Who are you? Who told you where to find me?”
“My name's Conroy. I have to ask you something about an autopsy you performed.”
“I don't do that anymore.”
“This was back in '83. It was a boy who died in a fire. His name was Robert Conroy. At least, that's what it said on the report. I have to know what â ”
He swore.
“ â you remember about that case. I'm sure it sticks out in your mind. That's not something that happens every day.”
The eyes widened a little, the red in them the color of fresh blood. “Who
are
you? I demand you tell me.”
“Robert Conroy was my brother. According to the autopsy report, which bears your signature, you made an identification by dental records. Do you recall that?”
He said nothing.
“Does the name Larry Oderkirk mean anything to you?” Steve said.
He looked to be drifting away.
“How about Owen Mott? Or Eldon LaSalle?” Steve said.
“Give me a drink. I need a drink.” He found the strength to sit up.
He reached out for the bottle of whisky. Steve snatched it away.
“You don't need any more of this,” Steve said.
“Give that to me.”
“After you talk. Then you can get as drunk as you want.”
“How dare you? Give me that bottle.”
“Talk.”
When Phillips saw Steve wasn't going to give him the liquor, he seemed to shrink. He buried his head in his hands, and his shoulders started to shake. Like the quake of the ground before oil gushes, Steve thought. He was hoping the doctor would gush the story he had obviously tried to hide for years.
“All right, all right,” Steve said. He left the man to cry a little, went into the bathroom, and looked for some tissue. Finding nothing but an old towel, he opted for a wad of toilet paper instead. The bathroom was not the cleanest he'd ever seen. The smell almost made him gag. He poured the rest of the whisky down the drain and left the bottle on the sink.
He came back to the doctor, who was in the same position, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It's all right,” Steve said, knowing it wasn't. He pushed the toilet paper into Phillips's hands. The doctor used it to dab his eyes.
His breathing started to normalize. “I never thought,” he said.
“Take it easy. Just tell me from the top what happened.”
“I was a good doctor,” he said to his hands, now open in his lap.
“A very good doctor.”
“I'm sure you were.”
“You don't know. Anything.”
“Why don't you tell me?” If he wanted to lay out his life story, Steve wouldn't mind. As long as he got to the important stuff.
But the doctor said nothing, seeming to drift back into a fog.
“Doctor,” Steve said, “do you know Edward Hendrickson?”
That blasted him out of the fog, and his wide eyes were the headlights. “Ed. You talked to Ed?”
“Yes.”
“Oh no.” His head slumped.
“Easy.”
“I need to clean up.” He touched his chest with both hands. “I'm a mess.”
“I don't care.”
“I care. Get me up.”
Steve took hold of one of his skinny arms and lifted him. What was left of him anyway.
“Where's the bottle?” he said.
“Look, let's get some food and coffee in you. My car's out front.”
“I feel sick.”
Great.
“Sit,” Phillips said. “Wait.” He trundled toward the bathroom.
As Steve waited he almost said a prayer. He thought that the good doctor was what he, Steve Conroy, could very easily become if he ever lost it to blow again. He appreciated the warning.
He wanted to get out of this hole as soon as he could. Breathe some air. Maybe drop the doc off at the nearest hospital and say, Here, do something.
There was a car crash on the TV. No sound, just a flaming car and people running around. They were trying to get a guy out before he burned up.
Steve heard a door slam.
He turned around and saw the only two interior doors â one to the bathroom, one to what must be the bedroom â wide open. The doctor certainly hadn't gone out the front door.
Then it hit him. What he'd heard was a gunshot.
He ran to the bathroom.
Phillips was there, his frail body motionless, blood oozing out of the back of his head.
There'd be no doctor for Phillips. There'd be nothing, ever again.
The detective looked about twelve years old. “You just found him there?” he said.
Steve was surprised the cop's voice didn't crack. “I heard the shot, yeah,” Steve said. “He wasn't going anywhere.”
Nearly an hour had gone by since Steve had called 9 â 1 â 1. Now the local homicide team was on the job. They were in front of the doctor's hovel, and Steve could hear the landlord screaming from inside his house. A few epithets and a couple of threats. Toward him.
“Now why is he so upset?” the detective, named Ross, asked.
“Why don't you ask him?” Steve said.
“I'm asking you, if you don't mind.”
“I do mind. I told you what happened. I told you twice.”
“I'm still not getting why you came to see Dr. Phillips.”
“Toothache.”
“He was a medical doctor.”
“I misread the ad.”
Ross heaved breath. He had ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. He could have been serving hamburgers at the In-N-Out. “You're not helping yourself here. You think being an LA lawyer is going to do you any good, you got another â ”
“I don't have to help myself. I don't have to answer your questions, either. I had a personal matter to discuss with Dr. Phillips and I want it to remain personal. All I can tell you is that I came here, I started to talk things over with him, and he went in the back and shot himself.”
“You must have upset him.”
“He was already upset. The man was a drunk.”
“Drunks don't always shoot themselves.”
“This one did.”
“And you have no idea why?”
“There are a million reasons for people to cash in. I'm sure if you dig around you'll find out whatever you need to know. It was a suicide, not a homicide, all right? There's nothing criminal here.”
“That's what I have to find out.”
“I'm telling you. There's only two people who know what happened in there, and one of them's dead. The other one is right here and he's telling you what happened. All right? Are we done here?”
“Mr. Conroy, you seem a little anxious to leave.”
“Yeah, I'm anxious. Like Al Sharpton at a Klan rally.”
“Excuse me?”
“Al Sharpton? Klan?”
“Sure.”
“I can tell you're a real fan of stand-up.” Steve handed the man his card. “I'll be happy to do up a formal statement and sign it under penalty of perjury. I'll fax it to your office. Okay?”
“I may have some more questions for you.”
“I always like to help the local constabulary.”
“Excuse me?”
“Constabulary? It means âcops'.”
The detective's face flushed like a fourth grader who just got reamed by the teacher. “I could hold you as a material witness, you know.”
“That would just make both of us crabby. I prefer that you be crabby and I go home. How's that?”
“You'll be hearing from me.”
“Looking forward to it.”
On the drive back to Verner, Steve considered whether to tell Johnny about finding Dr. Phillips. His big brother would definitely want to know, but then he'd also want to know what Steve was doing snooping around in the past.
And he'd have to say he didn't know exactly why. That he had these suspicions taking up residence in his brain. Formless doubts hovering around like the bad stink you get from an alley after the rain. It brings up the trash you might otherwise have missed.
Besides, what he did on his own time was his own business. Yes, he was working for the LaSalles, but he had not signed an exclusivity contract with them. He also didn't want to get anywhere near “belonging” to them. Like that guy said about the women of Beth-El.