Crisis (42 page)
"But what would you do if you don't practice? You've got a young family."
Craig shrugged. "Probably work for big pharma in some capacity. There are lots of opportunities. I know several people who have gone that route. The other possibility is managing somehow to do my research full-time."
"Could you really do that sodium-channel work full-time and be content?" Jack questioned.
"Absolutely. It's exciting stuff. It's basic science yet has immediate clinical application."
"I suppose big pharma is interested in that arena."
"Without doubt."
"Switching subjects," Jack said. "While I was outside saying good-bye to everyone, I had a thought that I wanted to run by you."
"About what?"
"About Patience Stanhope. I've got the whole case file, which I've read over several times. It includes all your records, but the only thing from the hospital is the emergency-room sheet."
"That's all there was. She was never admitted."
"I know that, but there's no labwork other than what is mentioned in the notes, and no order sheet. What I'm wondering is whether a major mistake could have occurred at the hospital, like the wrong drug given or a large overdose. If so, whoever was responsible could be desperate about covering up their tracks and be more than happy you are set up to take the fall. I know it's a theory somewhere out there in left field, but it's not as far out as the conspiracy idea. What's your take? I mean, it's clear from what happened here this afternoon to your children that someone is very, very against my doing an autopsy, and if Fasano is not to blame, the reason has to involve something other than money."
Craig stared off for a minute, mulling over the idea. "It's another wild but interesting thought."
"I assume that during discovery all the pertinent records from the hospital were obtained."
"I believe so," Craig said. "And an argument against such a theory is that I was there with the patient the whole time. I would have sensed something like that. If there's a major overdose or the wrong drug, there's usually a marked change in the patient's status. There wasn't. From the time I first saw her at the Stanhope residence until she was pronounced, she just faded away, unresponsive to anything we did."
"Right," Jack said. "But maybe the idea is something to be kept in mind when I get to do the autopsy. I was planning on a toxicology screen regardless, but if there's a chance of an overdose or the wrong drug, it's more critical."
"What does a toxicology screen pick up?"
"The usual drugs, and even some unusual ones if they have high enough concentrations."
Craig polished off his second drink, eyed the scotch bottle, and thought better of pouring a third. He stood up. "Sorry not to be a better host, but I have a date with my favorite hypnotic agent."
"It's bad news mixing alcohol with sleeping pills."
"Really?" Craig questioned superciliously. "I never knew that!"
"See you in the morning," Jack said. He felt Craig's provocative comment did not deserve a response.
"Are you worried about the bad guys coming back?" Craig asked in a taunting tone.
"I'm not," Jack said.
"Me neither. At least not until after the autopsy is done."
"Are you having second thoughts?" Jack asked.
"Of course I'm having second thoughts, especially with you telling me the chances of finding something relevant are small and Randolph saying it's not going to influence the trial irrespective of what's found, because it won't be admissible."
"I said the chances of finding something were small before someone broke into your house warning you not to allow me to do it. But this isn't an argument. It's up to you and Alexis."
"She's set on it."
"Well, it's up to you guys. You have to tell me, Craig. Do you want me to do it?"
"I don't know what to think, especially after two double scotches."
"Why don't you just give me your final word in the morning," Jack said. He was losing patience. Craig was not the easiest guy to like, even without two double scotches.
"What kind of person would be willing to terrorize three young girls to make a point?" Craig asked.
Jack shrugged. It was the kind of question that didn't need an answer. He said good night, and Craig did the same before walking unsteadily out of the room.
While staying on the sofa but leaning his head way back and hyperextending himself, Jack could just catch a glimpse of Craig slowly mounting the stairs. It seemed to him Craig was already evidencing a touch of alcohol-induced dyskinesia, as though he didn't quite know where his feet were. Always the doctor, Jack wondered if he should check on Craig in the middle of the night. It was a question with no easy answer, since Craig would not take kindly to such solicitousness, with its implication of neediness, an anathema to him.
Jack got himself up and stretched. He could feel the weight of the revolver, and it was comforting even though he was not concerned about any intruders. He looked at his watch. It was too early to try to fall asleep. He looked at the blank TV: no interest there. For lack of a better plan, he went to get Craig's case file and carried it to the study. As a man of habit, he sat in the same chair he'd occupied on previous occasions. After turning on the floor lamp, he searched through the file for the hospital ER record.
Pulling out the sheet, Jack settled back. He'd skimmed through it before, particularly the part about the cyanosis. Now he wanted to read every word. But as he was doing so, he became distracted. His eyes had drifted to Craig's old-fashioned doctor's bag. All of a sudden a new thought occurred to him. He wondered what the incidence of false positives was with the bedside biomarker kit.
First Jack went to the door to determine whether if he could hear Craig moving about upstairs. Even though Craig had implied he didn't care if Jack looked in his bag, Jack still felt uncomfortable. But when he was convinced all was quiet, he pulled the leather doctor's bag from its shelf, opened it, and got out the biomarker kit. Opening up the product insert, he read that the technology was based on monoclonal antibodies, which are highly specific, meaning the chance of a false positive was probably close to zero.
"Oh, well," Jack said out loud. The insert went back in the box and the box went back to its location in the very bottom of the bag among the three discarded vials, and the bag went back on the shelf.
So much for another clever idea,
he thought.
Jack returned to the reading chair and to the ER sheet. Unfortunately, there was nothing even remotely suspicious, and as he'd noticed on the first reading, the cyanosis notation was the most interesting part.
All of a sudden the two phones on the two desks sprang to life simultaneously. The raucous ring shocked Jack in the otherwise silent house. The insistent ring continued, and Jack counted them. After the fifth ring, he began to believe Craig might not be hearing it, and Jack heaved himself out of the reading chair. Turning on the lamp on Alexis's desk, he looked at the caller I.D. The name was Leonard Bowman.
After the seventh ring, Jack was certain it was not going to be answered, so he lifted the handset. As he suspected, it was Alexis.
"Thanks for picking up," she said after Jack's hello.
"I was waiting on Craig, but I guess his combination nightcap has him in dreamland.
"Is everything okay there?" Alexis asked.
"Peaches and cream," Jack said. "How are things there?"
"Quite well. All things considered, the girls are doing terrific. Christina and Meghan are already asleep. Tracy is watching an old movie on TV. We all have to sleep in the same room, but I think that's a good idea."
"Craig is having second thoughts about my doing the autopsy."
"Why? I thought that was all decided."
"He's having the jitters for the girls' sake, but it was after he'd had two double scotches. He's going to let me know tomorrow."
"I'll call him in the morning. I think it should be done, all the more so because of today's threat. I mean, that's one of the reasons the girls and I came out here. Plan on doing it! I'll bring him around."
After some final small talk, including that they would see each other in the courtroom, they both hung up.
Back in the reading chair, Jack tried to concentrate on the case file, but he couldn't. He kept marveling about how much was going to happen in the next few days and wondering whether there would be any surprises. Little did he know.
17
NEWTON, MASSACHUSETTS THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 2006 7:40 A.M.
The unease that Jack had experienced after Alexis and the kids left the evening before was magnified in the morning. Jack didn't know if Craig's mind-set was from the stress of his upcoming testimony or a hangover from his alcohol and sleeping pills, but he had reverted to his silent, brooding sullenness, similar to how he'd been on Jack's first morning at the Bowman residence. Back then Alexis and the children had made the situation sufferable, but without them it was decidedly unpleasant.
Jack had tried to be upbeat when he'd first emerged from his basement lair but had received a cold stare for his efforts. It was only after Jack had gotten himself some cereal and milk that Craig had said anything.
"I got a call from Alexis," Craig said in a husky, forlorn voice.
"She said you two had spoken last night. Anyway the message is: The autopsy is on."
"Fine," Jack responded simply. As bad a mood as Craig seemed to be in, Jack couldn't help but wonder what he would say if Jack owned up to having gone upstairs in the middle of the night to take a look at him and listen to his breathing. Everything had seemed normal enough, so Jack had not tried to wake him, which had been his original plan. It was a good thing he hadn't, considering Craig's current disposition without the intrusion and reminder of his neediness.
After Craig was ready to leave, he partially compensated for his behavior by coming over to Jack, who was at the dining table drinking coffee and glancing at the newspaper.
"I'm sorry for being a lousy host," Craig said in a more normal voice, devoid of either superciliousness or sarcasm. "This isn't my shining moment."
Out of respect, Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. "I understand what you are going through. I've never experienced a malpractice suit, but several of my friends did back in my ophthalmology days. I know it's awful and as bad as divorce."
"It sucks," Craig said.
Then Craig did something totally unexpected. He gave Jack an awkward hug, then immediately let go before Jack had had a chance to react. He avoided looking Jack in the eyes while he adjusted his suit jacket. "For what it's worth, I appreciate you coming up here. Thanks for your efforts, and I'm sorry you had to take a couple of whacks for me."
"I'm glad to have done it," Jack said, struggling to avoid sarcastically saying, "My pleasure." He hated being less than truthful, but he'd been caught off guard by the switch in Craig's behavior.
"Will I see you in the courtroom?"
"At some point."
"All right. See you then."
Jack watched Craig leave. Once again, he'd underestimated the man.
Jack went down to his basement guest room and put his belongings in his carry-on bag. He didn't know what to do about the bed linens. He ended up stripping them off the bed and leaving them and the towels in a heap. He folded the blankets. There was a notepad by the phone. He wrote a short thank-you note and put it on the blankets. He debated about the front door key but decided to keep it and give it back in person when he returned the case file to Alexis. He wanted to keep the case file until after the autopsy, in case the autopsy raised questions that the case file could shed light on or answer. He pulled on his jacket. He could feel the gun in one side and his cell phone on the other.
With the bulging manila envelope under one arm and his carry-on in the other hand, Jack climbed the stairs and opened the front door. Although the weather had been terrific since he'd been in Boston, it had taken a decided turn for the worse. It was darkly overcast and raining. Jack eyed his Hyundai. It was about fifty soggy feet away. Just to the side of the door was an umbrella stand. Jack pulled one out that said Ritz-Carlton. There was no reason he couldn't give it to Alexis when he returned the other things.
With the umbrella, it took several trips leaping over puddles to get his things in the car. When all was ready, he started the engine, turned on the wipers, and cleared away the windshield's mist with the side of his hand. He then backed out of the driveway, waved to the policeman sitting in his cruiser, apparently watching the house, and accelerated down the street.
He had to use his hand to clear the windshield mist again after only a short distance. With one eye on the road, he used the other to locate the defrost button. Once the defrost got up to speed, the mist problem abated. To help, Jack cracked the driver's-side window.
As Jack wound his way through the suburban streets, traffic gradually increased. Due to the dark, low cloud cover, many cars had their lights on. When he got to the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike, where he had to wait for a traffic light, he was reminded it was rush hour. Ahead, the toll road was swarming with racing autos, buses, and trucks creating a swirling, vaporous mist. Jack girded himself to enter the fray as he waited for the light to turn green. He was aware he was not a particularly good driver, especially since he rarely drove after moving to New York City a decade ago. Jack much preferred his beloved mountain bike, even though most people thought it dangerous to bike in city traffic.