The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (5 page)

"No you're not, Charlie. You're sensitive and
loving and nurturing and all that. But really deep down, when you
scratch through your mellow exterior, you're hard as nails. When you
really get mad, or when you really want something, nothing stands in
your way."

I thought about this for a second.

"Bullshit. I don't believe you."

"Well it's true. Even Laitis told you that down
in North Carolina. You didn't believe him, either."

"I still don't."

"Uh-huh. Well, have it your way. But I know.
Laitis knows, too. You'd make a better cop than Joey. Anyway, he
needed the cuddling; you needed a kick in the ass. Because there's
only one person I know of offhand who's as tough as you."

"Laitis Roantis."

"No. Me. And don't you ever forget it."

I kept tickling her back.

"I don't believe you," I said.

There was a long pause.

"Charlie? Who were you calling tonight right
before dinner?"

"
The medical examiner's office in the state lab.
I don't think Andy died of a seizure, Mary. I think you doubt it,
too. If he had skipped his medication, maybe. But he'd taken all of
Friday's Dilantin-phenobarb capsules. And if by chance he did have a
seizure, I doubt it would have been fatal. There's a chance he also
had an undiagnosed weak heart—maybe a congenital defect—but it's
unlikely."

"Yeah, a weak heart would've surfaced by this
time."

"I think something else killed him."

"Well, what?"

"Maybe a different kind of medication. That's
what the M.E. is looking for right now. For one, I suspect a strong
diuretic, since Jack remembers Andy urinating almost constantly
Friday afternoon. That would rapidly deplete his serum potassium."

"Ahhh . . . and cause an electrolyte imbalance."

"Right. Then maybe some kind of cardiac
stimulant. Or say some . . . hell, I don't know. And I don't like not
knowing."

"But why would he take the wrong meds?"

"Who knows? That's the part that's bothering
me."
 

FOUR

IT RAINED HEAVILY for the rest of the night. Sunday
morning brought a slow drizzle and lots of wind and fog. It was cold
outside, a bone-chilling wet wind that went clear through you and
made your teeth chatter. I sat at my desk and turned on the brass
student lamp with the green glass shade.

Tony's arrival at the Breakers had been postponed a
day because of the storm, so we didn't expect him until afternoon. We
had not told him of the tragedy yet. He would find out when he
arrived. There was no word from the DeGroots either. This we didn't
like. Had Jim, in his typical Dutch hard-driving manner, said to hell
with the nasty weather and decided to race down across the bay from
Cape Ann in hopes of outrunning the storm? If so, there was a chance
we'd never hear from them again.

Jack was down on the beach, casting bright
nickel-plated spoons into the waves with a nine-foot surf rod. He
needed the solitude and the peace of mind that comes with looking
into the teeth of huge crashing waves, listening to the shriek of
gulls overhead, and hoping for the sudden quick tugs on the line that
signal a monster bluefish or striped bass. He could do a lot of
hoping; the surf fishing wasn't usually much good on our side of the
Cape. He had to be soaked, even with his oilskins on, but he didn't
seem to mind. Joe had gone back to Boston for the morning to catch up
on his mail.

I got out of my chair and went over and hugged Mary,
who was cooking a big pot of clam chowder.

"Well what do you think, Charlie? Is this mess
going to work itself out?"

"I hope so. Except of course for the poor
Cunninghams. It sure was no fun to talk with them this morning. I
haven't had to face that kind of grief since . . . since I quit
general medicine."

Mary kept stirring the bacon squares with the wooden
spoon. She was impassive, as if she hadn't heard me.

"Jack seems to be holding up pretty well,"
she said. "But I'm not sure how well Joe is coping with this.
It's got to remind him of . . . of what happened."

"You think he'll ever remarry?"

"I really do," she sighed. 'Joey's too much
of a family man at heart not to. And he's only forty-three. He's got
time."

There was a knock at the door and I opened it to see
Officer Klewski standing in the rain, the water pouring off his
plastic-covered hat. Next to him stood a man in a trench coat. He
could have been a real estate agent or an insurance salesman. He
could have been a lot of things, but since my brother-in-law is a
plainclothes detective, I can usually spot one pretty fast.

The man in the trench coat deftly slipped his hand
behind the wide lapel and into his suit coat pocket, drawing out a
leather folder with a badge on it.

"Dr. Adams? How do you do; I'm Paul Keegan,
state detective for Barnstable County. I take it you know why we're
here. Is your son Jack around?" Keegan was pleasant, but not
jovial. David Klewski, who'd been almost chummy earlier, wore a very
straight face.

"He's down on the beach surfcasting. I know it
sounds silly in this storm, but that's where you'll find him, wearing
a big yellow slicker."

"We'd like a word with you, too, if you don't
mind. May we come in?"

I said sure, and soon the three of us were sitting in
front of the fire, coffee mugs in hand. Mary joined us too.

Keegan had blond hair clipped short, with clear blue
eyes. The whites of the eyes were bluish, too. His neck was
bull-thick but not fat; you could see his Adam's apple and jawline
clearly. Mr. Keegan was stocky and very strong and fit. There was no
nonsense about him.

"Dr. Adams," he asked, "what's your
opinion of Andrew Cunningham's death?"

"I'm curious about it," I said, shifting
nervously on the couch.

"Curious and disturbed. Mary and I are both
medical people, and it seems a little strange that he would die of a
seizure after he had taken his daily medication. My son Jack says
Andy told him he'd been on the medication for some time, so the
dosage was stabilized. He'd had no seizures, even minor ones, for as
long as Jack knew him. If he'd forgotten his meds, there might have
been a problem. But from examining the pill case we found on his
dresser, he seems to have finished Friday's dose before going to bed.
So all I can come up with at this point is what I've been saying all
along: a fatal heart attack precipitated by a seizure seems extremely
unlikely. Even more unlikely since Jack was in the next bed and heard
no disturbances during the night."

Paul Keegan nodded slowly at this, staring at the
oval rag rug on the floor. He cleared his throat tentatively.

"You say that it's clear the Cunningham boy took
his medication Friday night. Did anyone actually see him take the
pills?"

"No, because Andy went upstairs before we did.
But we surmise he took the daily dose from examining the pill case."

I then briefly explained the weekly dosage case while
Keegan nodded slowly.

"I think you've made a reasonable assumption
here, Doctor. But nobody actually saw him swallow the pills.
Therefore, it's possible that he could have discarded the medication,
or taken other medication."

"Possible, I suppose, but not likely," I
answered.

"I, uh, share your views on this, Doctor. I mean
the part about it being curious. That's why I've got to proceed one
step at a time, and why I'd like to speak with your son when he
returns. I got a phone call early this morning from the state
forensic laboratory in Boston. Apparently you called their office
yesterday evening?"

"Right. I had a few theories and wanted them
checked out."

"Uh-huh. Well, I don't have much information yet
because they're not finished up there, or they weren't when I left
Hyannis. But so far they've found one curious thing. The
concentrations of the anticonvulsant compound—the, uh, the two
drugs . . ."

"Dilantin and phenobarbital," said Mary.

"Uh, right. Well, the concentrations of those
were low. So low, in fact, that the M.E. doubts the boy took his
medications on Friday. That's why I wanted to know if anybody saw him
swallow them."

Mary and I looked at each other for a second, not
saying anything. Then I looked back at Paul Keegan, whose clear,
piercing blue eyes were boring into mine.

"Well, then that could explain it," said
Mary. "No meds—a seizure follows."

Keegan frowned at her.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Adams, your husband tells me
you're a medical person as well?"

"I'm a registered nurse. Actually, the work I'm
in, I see more of this kind of thing than my husband does."

"What kind of thing?"

"Seizures and such things."

"And you don't see them, Doctor?"

"
No. I'm an oral surgeon; I specialize in
surgery of the lower face and jaw."

"I see. Mrs. Adams, you agree that the death is
curious?"

"Well, I did, until just now. But now we seem to
have a scenario that makes some sense. Maybe Joe was right: the boy
was sick, forgot his meds, had a convulsion, and died.
Sic
transit gloria mundi
. Case closed."

"Sic what?" asked Keegan, a bewildered look
on his face. "It's an old Italian expression," she
answered, heading back to the stove to turn it down. "Excuse me
a second."

Keegan, still bewildered, stared back at me. I told
him I did not agree with my wife that the case was closed. Not by a
long shot. I asked him if he had any ideas.

"I sure don't know. You're the doctor."

"Uh-huh. Well, I've had some thoughts on this.
Some bad thoughts. I suspected, for one, that a cardiac arrest didn't
fit with the circumstances. Now that we know he didn't take the . .
."

I was staring off into space. I guess some time went
by.

"Dr. Adams?"

"
Huh?"

"Is something wrong?"

"I was just thinking of something. He didn't
take the meds. No. But he probably took the capsules . . ."

Keegan sat patiently, waiting for further
explanation. Mary came over to my side. I asked Keegan when he'd last
heard from the lab.

"Early this morning. Around nine-thirty."

"And all you got was a negative on the meds.
Okay. He should have more shortly. Mary, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that Joe said he would stop by the
office at Ten Ten before returning here. So when he comes back here
for lunch, he should know a lot more. I think I'll call his office
and leave a message for him."

"Who's Joe?" asked Keegan.

"My brother, Joe Brindelli."

"Joe Brindelli. I know a Joe Brindelli. But
he's—”

"You got it," she said. "A detective
lieutenant just like you."

"And you're his younger sister. I can see it in
your face  and mouth. jesus! Why don't people tell me these
things?"

"Older sister, but thanks anyway. Listen, if you
want, when Joe gets back here later, I'll have him give you a call.
You want to leave me a number?"

"I'll leave two. Home and office. Both are in
Hyannis; I'm only a half-hour away. Now, mind if we go down to the
beach and talk with your son a minute?”

They left by the back door and clumped down the
wooden stairway to the beach, their coats blowing out like capes in
the wind.

Mary and I put on our slickers and walked out onto
the deck in the blowing rain. We saw, far up the beach, Paul Keegan
and Officer Klewski approach the big guy in the yellow slicker.

"So what do you think, Charlie?"

"I don't know. Suicide? I'd say no; Andy seemed
way too upbeat for that. Choosing between Harvard and Hopkins . . .
He had everything going for him. But when he came back to the cottage
after making that phone call, he seemed real down. In fact, it's the
most amazing change in a person I've ever seen."

"Who did he call?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Who knows? He never
told Jack. He said he was calling Woods Hole. If I had to guess, I'd
say it was his new-found love: the Henderson girl."

Mary crinkled up her nose.

"I don't know, Charlie. I mean, the relationship
was new, and Andy seemed to have both feet firmly on the ground. I
sensed he was very goal-oriented. Didn't you? I don't think he'd go
off the deep end over a girl. I just don't think it fits."

"So far, nothing in this sad story is fitting
very well."

We looked up and saw Detective Keegan and Jack
shaking hands. Then Jack, who'd obviously been skunked at fishing,
began to pack up his gear.

We heard the front door slam. Then the back door
opened and Joe came out on the deck to join us. He was early. We
pointed at the distant three figures who were now trudging back to
the cottage, leaning forward into the strong wind.