Dante's Poison (34 page)

The next several days went by in a whirl of inactivity. For me, that is. At first, it was too early to call in the police—all I had was a hunch, after all—but I kept everyone else busy: Tim getting tests run on the bottle of pills that had been substituted for mine, Bjorn performing a thorough background check on the individual I now suspected of doping me, Josh making some discreet inquiries among our colleagues. When Bjorn's preliminary report came back, confirming some of my suspicions but adding a whole new layer of intrigue, I also put in calls to Tony Di Marco and Rusty Halloran, who were only too happy to help.

Other than that, there wasn't much I could contribute to the effort, so after going out and buying another cane—at the rate I was losing them, I ought to have been buying futures in fiberglass—I did what I ought to have done long before and went to visit Hallie. In the last several days, they'd transferred her from the ICU to a private room on the hospital's fifth floor, where most of the neurological patients were housed. I exited the elevator, asked at the nurses' station which room she was in, and didn't object when one of them offered to walk me over, leaving my cane against the wall just outside the door.

Upon entering, I was immediately attacked by a dog.

I may not have done enough before now to explain my aversion to the canine species, which probably has its roots in some long-forgotten childhood episode. The fact is that dogs and I have always gotten along like—well, dogs. I don't like them and they don't like me, a mutual antipathy that is usually expressed on the dog side by hysterical barking, jaw snapping, or aggressive exploration of my privates. Blindness only made matters worse, since I couldn't always be certain whether the beast baring its fangs to me was a five-pound Chihuahua or an eighty-pound Doberman. This one's size, however, was no mystery. It nearly knocked me down when it leaped up to prevent me from coming into the room, and was now emitting a menacing growl at my feet.

“Lola!” came a sharp command. “Bad girl. You know you're not supposed to do that. Get over here and lie down.” Then to me: “I'm so sorry. She's been trained not to do that sort of thing, but she forgets sometimes.”

Lola quieted and took herself off, toenails scratching on the floor, to where her owner seemed to be seated a few yards to my left. I took a step in that direction. “No need to apologize. I seem to have that effect on them. You must be Hallie's brother.”

“That's me,” he said, rising from his chair. “Gerry Sanchez.”

I figured he was waiting for me to take his outstretched hand and said, “I'm sorry, but I've never really figured out how blind people do it.”

“Are we talking about sex?” he said. “It's really not all that complicated.”

I laughed. “I meant shake with each other.”

Gerry laughed, too, a mirthful sound from deep in his belly. “So you're the mystery man we've all been wondering about. What took you so long? Here, try this. Come closer and wave it around. It's not pretty, but it gets the job done.”

I did as he asked and felt my hand captured in a powerful grip.

“Mark Angelotti,” I said.

“I know your name. Hallie talks about you all the time. I expect the first thing you'll want to do is see her.”

He guided me over to her bedside and put my hand on hers. It was warm and pulsating with the slow rise and fall of her chest. I stayed there quietly for a while, breathing steadily in and out myself.

“She's gonna be all right, you know,” Gerry said from beside me. “The doctor said so. He was in here half an hour ago, checking on her. They're going to start easing her out of her sleep tomorrow.”

I nodded dumbly, then remembered he couldn't see it. “That's great,” I said, reclaiming my vocal chords. “Are you the only one here?”

“At the moment, yes. My mom and sisters are downstairs grabbing lunch. The security guard, too. I told him I'd sic Lola on anyone who tried to get near Hallie. I guess she actually listened to me for a change.”

I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

“Mind if I ask you a question?” Gerry said, filling the silence.

“So long as it's not how I use a knife and fork.”

Gerry gave off another belly laugh and clapped me on the shoulder. “You're all right, man. Remind me to share some ways to answer questions like that. I've been doing it my whole life and know how to shut them down fast. No, what I wanted to know is why you waited all this time to come around? Were you afraid we'd bite your head off?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, you shouldn't have worried.”

“Why not? If it hadn't been for me . . .” I trailed off morosely.

Gerry sighed. “Look, I barely know you, but would you mind if I gave you a piece of advice?”

“Depends. Will there be a fee?”

“Uh-uh. That's your gig, not mine. But as one blind dude to another?”

“If it's the party line, don't bother. I've heard it all before and it hasn't made much of an impression.”

“I'll bet it hasn't. But go lighter on the movement. More often than not, the organizations are headed by lifers like me, so they can't fully relate to what it's like to be a newbie. And with all the negative stereotypes out there, they have to spin it like it's no big deal. Me, I'm a realist. I've never known anything else, but it's gotta be a bitch getting used to.”

“I've used heartier expletives than that. But if we're staying away from propaganda, what is it you wanted to say?”

“Just this. I don't know what Hallie's told you about us growing up, but my family went out of their way not to shelter me. You want to ride a bike? Great. Take the ‘L' by yourself? No problem. The flip side of that is that when I got hurt—fell down and broke my arm, or came home with a black eye after some piece of
mierda
tried to mess with me—they didn't give me much sympathy either. If you're gonna live your life like anyone else, you've got to accept that shit happens.”

“Even to your sister?”

“Even when it's my sister. That's what I've been trying to tell you. Nobody here blames you for being out late with Hallie, or even for where the two of you were when you were attacked. If we did, we'd all be big fat hypocrites.”

Maybe he was just being generous, but it sounded sincere.

“Wanna know what else I think?” Gerry said.

“I have a feeling my wants are irrelevant to this discussion.”

“I think you gotta give it more time. You've been at this what—two years? I've heard it takes a lot longer to get acclimated, to the point where you really start forgetting. But they say it happens—eventually.”

I prayed he was right. “The problem is, will anyone else ever forget?”

“Yeah well, no sugar-coating on that score, either. Lots of 'em won't. You just gotta pick the right people to hang out with. Like my sister, since we're on that subject. And yeah, you can consider that a hint. Or, if you need more of my advice, a very strong push in that direction.”

“Or you and your brothers will come after me with a baseball bat?” I said only half in jest.

“I think we've already seen enough of that action lately. And now, before I start preaching again, why don't I take myself off for a while? My mom and sisters haven't been getting much fresh air recently and Lola could use a potty break. I think I'll swing round to the cafeteria and we'll all go for a stroll so you can have some time alone with Hallie.”

“Thanks, Gerry,” I said, profoundly grateful for his forgiving attitude. Maybe it was time I stopped always anticipating the worst. And trusted that Hallie, when she knew everything, would forgive me too.

When we were finally ready to present our evidence to O'Leary, he was appropriately impressed.

“So you're saying he's been poisoning people for years?”

“That's one way of looking at it,” I said. “Or you could call him the anti-poisoner.”

We—Josh, Bjorn, O'Leary, and I—were gathered in a booth in the sticky recesses of the Double L, where I had just treated everyone to a round of drinks. I'd figured it was safer to meet there than in my office. If we were going to catch Gallagher's murderer, it was important that he be kept unawares, and though I had no idea what O'Leary actually looked like, he oozed cop like a squid oozes ink. When he wasn't needed at the bar, Jesus was also hovering in the background, hanging on our every word.

“And right under everyone's noses?”

I nodded a yes. I'd realized almost immediately how my pills had been switched but hadn't been prepared for the full truth. I let Bjorn explain.

“It all goes back to a murder trial you may remember. A geriatrics physician named Donald Tesma who was arrested and convicted for having engineered the deaths of scores of elderly patients in and around Chicago. The trial was sensational—front-page news here and nationally.”

“I do remember this,” O'Leary said. “Didn't they call him the ‘Nursing Home Killer'?”

“That's right. His methods were ingenious and usually mimicked natural death in the old folks he preyed upon. Most often, he injected their IV bags with potassium chloride—salt, that is—but he sometimes used epinephrine and digitalis. In almost all cases, his victims were already frail, and it was just assumed they'd expired of previously existing conditions. He was only caught because a patient observed Tesma using a syringe on his IV bag and managed to press the call button before passing out. The authorities then began to look into other deaths at the facilities where Tesma had privileges and noticed a pattern. Eventually they exhumed the bodies of two dozen other patients whose deaths could be linked circumstantially to Tesma.”

“But not directly?” O'Leary asked.

Bjorn said, “No, and that's an important point. In many cases the decomposed state of the bodies they dug up precluded saying exactly how they'd died, especially when Tesma used sodium, which is found naturally in body tissue. It was easier to identify the cause of death when he used other drugs, but the pathologists testifying for the state had to really push the science. The prosecution credited one in particular, whose name I'll save for later, as being instrumental in getting Tesma convicted.”

“So he never confessed?” O'Leary again.

“No, and that's also important. Tesma insisted all along that he was innocent and kept on insisting even after his conviction was upheld on appeal. The families of the victims thought otherwise and successfully sued Tesma for all he was worth.”

“Christ,” O'Leary said. “And I thought doctors entered the profession to save people, not strangle them in their beds.”

“Actually,” Josh said through a mouthful of nuts, “it's thought that the health professions are riddled with serial killers who enter the field either because they have a pathological interest in life and death, or believe they're doing patients a favor by ending their suffering. The tragedy is these killers' crimes often get overlooked or can't be proved. Even when they leave one hospital under a cloud, with all the shortages in trained personnel it's easy for them to find work elsewhere. Sometimes they go on claiming victims for years.”

“Which is another part of the story we'll get to,” Bjorn said. “Anyway, you may not remember that Tesma had a son of the same name who was there for his father's entire trial and was said to be visibly distraught throughout the proceedings. The boy's mother had disappeared some years earlier—there was speculation that the father had poisoned her too—and Tesma senior was the only family he had. According to court watchers, it was the boy's testimony during the penalty phase of the case that saved his father's life. The jury wasn't prepared to orphan a child and spared Tesma the death sentence despite some serious outcry in the press. They could have spared themselves the criticism. After Tesma was sentenced to life in prison and his appeals were exhausted, he hanged himself. In the meantime, the boy had been sent to live with an aunt in St. Louis, where he finished high school. He was apparently a brilliant student and graduated first in his class, winning an academic scholarship to college. Just before he left home for his freshman year, the aunt passed away in her sleep of an apparent aneurism.”

“Let me guess,” Josh added, still chewing. “Her remains were cremated.”

“Right-o,” Bjorn answered. “From that point forward, our killer was on his own. One of the first things he did was get a legal name change, explaining to the judge who signed the order that he wanted to escape the stigma of his father's crimes and get a fresh start. After that, he completed college in three years, graduating
summa cum laude
with a degree in chemistry. Even got an award of some kind from the American Chemistry Association. From there he went on to medical school at Southern Illinois. It was around that time that he started exhibiting some troubling behavior—or at least the first time it got noticed.”