Claws and Effect (14 page)

27

While most of the residents of Crozet spent the night in shock and tears, Sheriff Shaw worked like a demon, as did Cynthia Cooper.

Once Larry's body was loaded on the ambulance, Shaw and Cooper sped on their way to Sam Mahanes.

They knocked on the door.

Sally opened it. “Sheriff Shaw, Coop, come on in.”

They could hear the boys upstairs in the bathroom, splashing and shouting.

“Sorry to disturb you, Sally, but it's important.”

“I know that.” She smiled genuinely, revealing broad, even teeth. “He's in his shop.”

“We'll just go on down.” Rick had his hand on the doorknob.

“Fine.” She turned back, heading up the stairs, since the water noise was taking on a tidal wave quality.

“Sam,” Rick called to him.

The tall director, bent over a workbench, his hands gripping a tiny soldering iron, finished the small seam, then turned off the implement. “Rick, had to finish this or it'd be ruined.”

Rick and Cynthia admired the thin wooden box with inlaid gold and silver.

“Beautiful.” Coop admired his work.

“Thank you. Keeps me sane.”

Rick scoped the shop. Sam had the best woodworking equipment, soldering equipment, even a small, very expensive lapidary saw. “Back door?”

“Sometimes I slip in to escape the boys. I love 'em but I need to get away. Dennis is at the age where he wants to pick up everything. I lock the doors. I think when they're a little older I'll let them work with me.”

“Good idea.” Rick smiled. As there was no place to sit down, he suggested going upstairs.

Once settled in the library Rick got to the point. “Sam, Larry Johnson was shot twice and killed at Twisted Creek Stables.”

“What?”

“As soon as we finished examining the body and the scene of the murder I drove to you. I wanted to talk to you before the reporters get to you.”

“Thank you,” Sam said.

“And I wanted to reach you before your phone started ringing off the hook.” Rick noticed how pale Sam's face was, so pale from the shock that his cheeks looked like chalk. “Level with me, Sam. Do you know what's going on at your hospital? Any idea?”

“I don't. Nothing makes sense to me and—this may not be related to Crozet Hospital.”

“No, but I have to take into consideration that Larry's murder might be connected to events there.”

Cynthia discreetly flipped open her notepad.

“Yes—of course.” Sam swallowed hard.

“We've considered black-market traffic in organs.”

“Good God, Rick, you can't be serious.”

“I have to think of anything worth killing for and money surely seems to be number one on the list.”

“There's no selling of kidneys and livers. I'd know about it.”

“Sam, maybe not. Hypothetical situation. You've got a young intern on the take. A person dies—someone in fairly good condition—the intern harvests the kidney, packs it up, and sends it off.”

“But we have records of pickups and deliveries. Besides, families often request autopsies. If a kidney were missing we'd know. The family would know. There'd be hell to pay and lawsuits until kingdom come.”

“What if the person responsible for the autopsies is in on it, too?”

Sam's brow furrowed, he ran his forefinger across the top of his lip, a nervous gesture. “The more people involved, the more opportunity for mistakes or loose talk.”

“If there is a ring, Hank Brevard would have been in a good position to reap the benefits. He could ship organs out of there without anyone knowing.”

“The pickup would know.”

“The pickup gets a cut. You don't know how many trucks go down to the back door or to loading and unloading. But the back door is my guess there because it's simply a service entrance for the workers. All someone has to do is walk in, go to Hank's office or wherever the organs are stored, and walk out. They could be in a carton, surrounded by a plastic bag filled with dry ice—any number of unobtrusive carriers.”

“For one thing, Sheriff, we know who uses operating rooms. I don't think it's possible. Just not possible.”

“The patients are dead, Sam. They could cut them and sew them in a broom closet, in a bathtub. All they'd need is water to wash the blood, then zip the body back up in a body bag and off to the morgue—or they could cut them up at the morgue.”

“Procedures in the morgue are as strict as in the operating room. Sheriff, I understand you need to consider every angle but this one is just not possible.”

“What about fraud? Double-billing—?”

Sam shrugged. “Over time that, too, would show up. And we have few complaints in that department—other than shock at medical costs, but no, that's out.”

“Has anyone been acting peculiar? Anyone attracting your attention?”

“No.” Sam held out his hands as if in supplication. “Apart from Hank Brevard's death, everything is routine. The trains run on time. I can't think of anyone behaving in an untoward manner. Bruce is hostile towards me but he's always hostile towards me.” Sam smirked slightly.

Rick persisted. “Are there other ways to create illicit profit, if you can stand that phrase? Something specific to hospitals of which Coop and I might be unaware?”

“Drugs. That's obvious. We keep them under lock and key but a clever head nurse or doctor can find ways to pilfer.”

“Enough to make a lot of money?”

“We'd notice fairly soon but enough to make one quick, big hit. It's possible to do that and get away with it.”

“Do you think any of your staff is on drugs?” Rick kept his face impassive.

“Yes. It's part of the hospital business. It takes some time to find them out but there's usually a nurse, a doctor, an orderly taking uppers or downers. The doctor creates false dosages for a patient. Again, we'll sniff it out but it takes some time—and I hasten to add it's part of our culture.”

“How often has this happened at the hospital?”

Sam hesitated. “I think I ought to have the hospital lawyer here for this conversation.”

“For Christ's sake, Sam, Larry Johnson is dead and you're worried about hospital liability! I'm not going to the press with this but I've got to know and if you don't tell me I'll dig it out and in the process uproot other things as well. It will get everyone in an uproar. How often has this happened?”

“Last year we found two people stealing Darvocet, codeine-based pills, Quaaludes. We fired them. End of story.” He took a deep breath. “As I said, drug abuse is as American as apple pie.”

“Once fired from a hospital that person will never work in a hospital again unless he or she goes to Honduras—am I right?”

“And they might not even get work in Central America. They'd have to go where people were so desperate they didn't care about their records from anywhere else. It definitely would be a career killer.”

“All those years of medical school, all those bills—for nothing.” Rick folded his hands together, leaning forward. “Other ways to steal or make money?”

“Oh, patient jewelry, wallets, and credit cards.”

“Equipment?”

Sam exhaled. “No. Who would they sell it to? Also, we'd notice it immediately.”

“Was Hank Brevard a good plant manager?”

“Yes. We discussed that before. He was conscientious. Apart from his obvious personality flaw that he was resistant to new technology. He wanted to do everything the way it always had been done.”

“Remind me, had he ever been disciplined during his career at Crozet Hospital?” Rick glanced over at Coop.

“No. Well.” Sam opened his hands, palms upward. “I'd routinely meet with him and request he, uh, lighten up. But no, Hank was no trouble.”

“Ever hear about affairs?”

“Hank?” Sam's eyebrows shot upward. “No.”

“Gambling?”

“No. Sheriff, we've been over this.”

“You're right. Was Larry Johnson off the rails at any time?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did people feel he was too old to practice? Was he carried for old times' sake?”

“No. Quite the contrary. He was a G.P., of course.” Sam abbreviated General Practitioner. “So he wasn't a glamour boy but he was a good, solid doctor and always open to new procedures, medical advances. He is, I mean was, a remarkable human being.”

“Could he have been stealing drugs?”

“Absolutely not.” Sam's voice raised. “Never.”

“Sam, I have to ask these questions.”

“There is no blemish on that man's record.”

“Then I must respectfully suggest he got too close to whoever is blemished.”

“The murder of Larry Johnson may not be related to Crozet Hospital. You're jumping to conclusions.”

“Perhaps but you see, Sam, he was my man on the inside.” The color drained from Sam's face as Rick continued, “I believe the murders are related and I will prove it.”

“You should have told me.”

“What if you're in on it?” Rick said bluntly.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” Sam's face now turned red, and he fought back his anger.

“Or Jordan Ivanic. He's in a position to pull strings—excuse the worn phrase.”

“Jordan.” Sam's lips pursed together. “No. He's a man devoid of all imagination. He does everything by the book.”

“You don't like him?”

“Oh, he's one of those men who can't think on his own. He has to find a precedent, a procedure, but he's honest. We aren't the best team personality-wise but Jordan isn't a criminal.”

“He has three speeding tickets in two years' time. Had to take a driver's course mandated by the state.”

“That doesn't make him a criminal.” Sam's patience was wearing thin.

“Did you know about the tickets?”

“No. Sheriff, why would I know? You're grasping at straws. You assume my hospital, and I do think of it as my hospital, is a hotbed of crime. You connect two murders which while heinous may not be connected. As for Larry Johnson being your spy, that still doesn't prove his murder's connected to the hospital. He may have had a secret life.” Sam's eyes blazed.

“I see.” Rick stared at his shoes for a moment, then looked up at Sam. “What about the hospital killing people through negligence?”

“I resent that!”

“It happens.” Rick raised his voice. “It happens every day all over America. It has to have happened at your hospital, too.”

“I won't discuss this without a lawyer.” Sam's jaw hardened.

“Well, you just do that, Sam. You'd better hire a public-relations firm, too, because I won't rest until I find out everything, Sam, everything and that means just who the hell was killed at your hospital because some bozo forgot to read their chart, gave the wrong medicine, or the anesthesiologist screwed up. Shit happens even in Crozet Hospital!” Rick stood up, his face darkening. Coop stood up, too. “And I'll have your ass for interfering with a law-enforcement officer in the prosecution of his duties!”

Rick stormed out, leaving an angry Sam sitting in the library with his mouth hanging wide open.

Coop, wisely, slipped behind the wheel of the squad car before Rick could do it. She had no desire to peel out of the Mahanes' driveway, then careen down the road at eighty miles an hour. Rick drove fast anyway; angry, he flew.

He slammed the passenger door.

“Where to?”

“Goddamned Jordan Ivanic, that's where. Maybe that smart bastard will tell us something.”

She headed toward the hospital, saying nothing because she knew the boss. The misery over Larry's death swamped him and this was his way of showing it. Then again, he had a good reason to be livid. Someone was killing people and making him look like a jerk.

“Boss, this is a tough case. Go easy on yourself.”

“Shut up.”

“Right.”

“I'll nail Sam Mahanes. I will fry him. I will slice and dice him. You know patients have died from stupidity. It happens!”

“Yes, but Sam's job is to protect the reputation of the hospital. Covering up one or two mistakes is one thing, covering up a rash of them is something else—and Larry would have known, boss. Doctors may be able to keep secrets from patients and patient families but not from one another, not for long, anyway.”

“Larry would have known.” Rick lit a cigarette. “Coop, I'm stuck. Everywhere I turn there's a wall.” He slammed his fist into the dash. “I know this is about the hospital. I know it!”

“Any one of our ideas could provoke someone to kill.”

“You know what really worries me?” He turned his face to her. “What if it's something else? What if it's something we can't imagine?”

No sooner had Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper pulled out of the driveway than Sam Mahanes made a beeline to his shop, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed Tussie Logan.

“Hello.”

“Tussie.”

“Oh, hello.” Her voice softened.

“I'm glad you're home. Have you heard the terrible news about Larry Johnson?”

“No.”

“He was found shot at Twisted Creek Stables.”

“Larry Johnson.” She couldn't believe it.

“Listen, Tussie, Sheriff Shaw and that tall deputy of his are going to be all over the hospital. We're going to have to cool it for a while.”

A long pause followed. “I understand.”

28

The streets, alleys, and byways leading to the Lutheran Church were parked solid. The funeral service slated to start at eleven
A.M.
brought out all of Crozet, much of Albemarle County, plus the friends and family flying in from places Virginians often forgot, like Oklahoma.

At quarter to eleven some people were frantically trying to find places to park. Sheriff Shaw figured this would happen. He instructed the two officer escorts for the funeral cortege to ignore double-parking and parking in a No Parking zone. He did not waive the rules on parking by a fire hydrant.

Businesses opened their parking lots to everyone. The crush of people was so great that over two hundred had to file into the offices and hallways of the church, the church itself being full. At eleven there were still over seventy-five people standing outside, and the day turned crisp, clear, and cold.

The Reverend Herbert C. Jones, anticipating this, hung up speakers outside as well as in the hallways. Yesterday had been Ash Wednesday, so he wore his Lenten vestments.

Herb had known Larry all his life. He pondered over his eulogy, pondered over the life of a good man being snuffed out so violently. As a man of God he accepted the will of God but as a friend, a human of great feeling, he couldn't help but question.

The upper-management staff of Crozet Hospital filled the left-hand, front side of the church. Behind Sam Mahanes, Jordan Ivanic, Dr. Bruce Buxton, and others were those support people who worked with Larry over the years, Tussie Logan, other nurses, secretaries, people who had learned to love him because he valued them. Larry hadn't had an ounce of snobbery in his soul.

On the right-hand side of the church, at the front, sat distant relatives, nephews and nieces and their children. Larry's brother, a lawyer who had moved to Norman, Oklahoma, after World War II, was there. Handsome people, the Johnsons shared many of Larry's qualities: down-to-earth, respectful, hardworking. One great-nephew in particular looked much like Larry himself at twenty-five.

When Mim Sanburne saw this young man she burst into tears. Both Jim and Little Mim put their arms around her, but this reminder in the flesh, this genetic recall, tore at her heart. Larry was irretrievably gone and with him, Mim's youth and passion.

Harry, Susan, and Miranda sat together near the front on the right-hand side of the church. All three women wore hats, as was proper. In Harry's case the hat also served to cover the stitches.

The walnut casket, closed, sat at the nave, down below the altar. The scent of the massed floral arrangements overpowered those in the front. For those in the rear the sweet odors brought hopes of the not-too-distant spring, an exquisite season in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The murmur of voices hushed when Herb opened the door behind the lectern. Two acolytes were already seated, one by the lectern, the other by the pulpit. When Herb entered, the congregation stood. He walked to the center, held his hands up, and the congregation was seated.

As the service for the dead progressed, those who knew the good reverend felt the force of his deep voice, felt the genuine emotion. By the time he read his sermon, liberally sprinkled with pawprints from his cats, people knew this was the greatest sermon Herb had ever given.

He eschewed the usual easy words about the deceased being with the angels. He spoke of a life well lived, of a life spent in service to others, of a life devoted to easing pain, to healing, to friendship. He spoke of foxhunting and fly-fishing, Larry's favorite pastimes. He recalled his record in the Navy, his youthful practice, his rapport with people. He argued with God, Herb did.

“Lord, why did you take Thy faithful servant when we have such need of him here on earth?” He read Psalm 102. “‘Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to Thee! Do not hide thy face from me in the day of my distress! Incline thy ear to me; answer me speedily in the day when I call! For my days pass away like smoke and my bones burn like a furnace. My heart is smitten like grass, and withered; I forget to eat my bread.'”

As Herb continued with the psalm, Mrs. Hogendobber quietly recited it with him, her memory of the Good Book being a source of comfort to her and astonishment to others.

At the end of the service, Herb asked that people join hands and repeat the prayers with him. “Larry spent his life bringing people together. Whoever is on your right, whoever is on your left, remember that Dr. Larry Johnson has brought you together even in death.”

After the service the church doors opened. People slowly left the church, almost unwilling to go because the emotions holding them there were so powerful.

Mim, in control now, walked to the car. From here the group would wind its way to the cemetery just southwest of town.

Harry reached her truck, stepped on the running board to get in, and noticed a dead chicken, its neck broken, in the bed of the truck.

She reached over, picking it up. There was nothing special about it except that it was tossed deliberately in the back of her truck.

She had an old canvas tarp which she pulled over the bird. It wouldn't do to drive to the entombment with feathers flying.

She knew in her bones this was a cheap warning.