Doctors (33 page)

The Quad was almost completely dark, with occasional patches of grass visible in the pale light emanating from one or two labs.

About five minutes into his run he knew that he was not alone. At first it was merely the rapid glimpse of someone approaching from behind the great marble pillars of Building A. Could it be some energetic faculty member? No, those guys kept fit by playing murderous games of tennis against each other. At this ungodly hour of the night it had to be another wrought-up student like himself—or, his paranoia suddenly suggested—the mystery dog-killer out to stalk his first human prey.

The figure was moving at a good pace and Barney—having convinced himself he was running for his life—accelerated as well. To no avail, for in another lap the other runner was literally breathing at his shoulder.

“Hi, Barney,” came a whisper.

He turned and recognized—Grete Andersen.

“Jeez, Grete,” he puffed, “what brings you out here at this hour?”

“Probably the same as you. I knew the pressure would be bad, never like this. I think a lot of guys are going bananas.”

“Some people don’t realize that nobody ever flunks out of this Med School,” Barney retorted.

“I think I’ll disprove that,” she said, her voice slightly quavering. “I’ve been struggling to keep my head above water all year and I really don’t think I’ll make it.”

A sudden thought occurred to Barney. Was it Grete who got the ignominious eleven—and the subsequent nine, ten, and thirteen—on the Biochem exams?

“Listen, Grete, the worst that could happen—I know this for a fact—is that they’ll make you repeat the first year. I swear, every guy that’s accepted gets his M.D. sooner or later.”

They jogged a few more steps and Grete tonelessly replied, “Except the ones that kill themselves. I heard that every class loses about a half dozen via the hara-kari route.”

Barney’s thoughts suddenly returned to Maury Eastman and that early autumn evening. And he wondered if his jogging partner—who for once wasn’t going through her sex kitten act—was contemplating self-destruction.

“Let’s take a little rest, huh, Grete?”

“Fine with me.”

They slowed to a walk. Barney noticed how the perspiration made her face glisten in the moonlight. God, she was a beauty.

“Uh, what made you think of suicide?” he asked as tactfully as possible. “I mean, do you know anyone who is … in trouble?”

“I don’t know anyone who isn’t,” she said candidly. “Do you know, the Student Health psychologists are working night and day, and almost everybody in the class has been to see them, at least everyone I know. The tension in the Deanery is thicker than molasses. Never have so many pills been taken by so few.…”

“What kind of pills?”

“You know, amphetamines to keep you up, and phenobarb to cool you down.…”

“Where do they get that stuff?”

“Oh, the shrinks give out some on prescription and, well, if anybody knows an intern it’s a cinch to get whatever you want.”

“Are you taking anything?”

“Yes, sometimes,” she said defensively.

“Laura?”

“Probably … I don’t know. Hell, cut the interrogation, will you?”

Barney, who had embarked on the nocturnal workout to relax, was now more panicked than when he started.

All year long, Laura had never once revealed how she had done on any test. It was so atypical of her that the only logical conclusion was that she was flunking. Christ, he thought, why didn’t I insist more? Shouldn’t I have realized that she would be too proud to tell me on her own?

By now Barney and Grete had warmed down and were heading back to Vanderbilt. When they had reached the crescent facing Avenue Louis Pasteur, he asked, “Hey, Grete, when you get upstairs, will you ask Castellano to give me a ring?”

“Sure, no problem.”

As he began walking back, taking two stairs at a time, Barney glanced at Grete doing stretching exercises and thought, Hurry the hell up, dammit, Andersen. I’ve gotta know that Laura is okay.

He didn’t dare shower lest the phone ring while he was in there. So he just sat on his bed, feeling the warm sweat of his T-shirt turn into a sticky and uncomfortable cold compress. He tried to stay calm.

At last the phone rang and Lance Mortimer—whose room was much closer—was the first to pick it up.

“You must have ESP,” he said as he saw Barney sprinting down the hall. “Either that or Miss Roundheels of the class is offering her body as a study aid.”

Barney grabbed the phone. “Hello, Castellano?”

“No, Barney, it’s me—Grete.”

“Is Castellano there?”

“Yeah, but I can’t get her to the phone.”

“Why not?” Barney asked, his freezing T-shirt now making him shiver.

“She’s absolutely zonked, Barney. Dead to the world.”

“What do you mean, ‘dead’?” he asked anxiously.

“I mean she’s so fast asleep I don’t think anything but an earthquake could snap her out of it. Can’t it wait till the morning?”

What could he say? Should he come straight out and ask Grete to check Laura’s pulse and respiration?

“Barney, if that’s all, I’d like to go to sleep,” Grete said impatiently. “I mean, I’ve swallowed a tablet and I’m starting to feel a little woozy.”

“Dammit,” he snapped, “why are all you girls popping pills like M&Ms?”

“Hey, simmer down,” Grete replied soothingly. “Every guy—except maybe Seth Lazarus—is swallowing something to get through these exams. Hey look—” She yawned. “I’ll leave a note for Laura that you called. Goodnight.”

As Barney slowly replaced the phone, he turned and found Lance standing at his shoulder.

“What’s all this about pills?” he asked.

“None of your goddamn business,” Barney snapped. “Do you always eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?”

“Hey, loosen up,” Lance protested amiably. “I’m just trying to help out.”

“Exactly what do you have in mind, Lance?” Barney retorted sarcastically.

“Well, I’ve got red help, green help, and white help. What would you like?”

“What are you? The Old Dope Peddler?”

“Cool it, Livingston. I was only trying to be neighborly.”

“Jesus!” Barney fumed and stamped down the hall to his room. He sat on his bed, and took half a dozen deep breaths. And regretted not having accepted Lance’s offer of a phenobarb.

*    *    *

He was shocked awake by the hysterical shriek of a siren and the screeching of tires at the front of Vanderbilt Hall.

In panic he sat up, reached to the floor for his trousers, pulled them on, quickly laced sneakers to his bare feet, and began to sprint. As he was speeding down the stairs he caught up with a student he did not know by name.

“What the hell’s going on?” Barney asked fearfully.

“I think we’ve lost a classmate,” the student replied, with more bemusement than sympathy. “I guess things got a bit too much for one of our little girls.”

“Who, for chrissake?” Barney demanded.

His informant merely shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? I was just going down to find out.”

Barney bounded past him and raced down to the main lobby. Through the open doors of Vanderbilt Hall he could see an ambulance, backed right up onto the sidewalk, its open doors filling the gateway.

There were clusters of students, some half-dressed, others still in pajamas, on either side of the dormitory entrance, all with a look on their faces—so it seemed to Barney—like ancient Romans at a gladiatorial contest, eager to see death.

Suddenly two white-clothed men carrying a stretcher appeared at the bottom of the stairway leading from the Deanery. As they approached the crowd, the orderly in front bellowed, “Out of the way. Give us some room, dammit!”

Barney pushed his way through the crowd to get a glimpse of the stretcher. Whoever they were carrying was obviously dead—and unrecognizable because the entire body was covered by a blanket. He was now face to face with the front stretcher-bearer, blocking his way.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

The man simply growled, “Get the hell out of the way, kid,” knocking Barney backward with his shoulder.

Someone touched him on the arm.

“Barney?”

It was Laura, pale as a ghost, but alive.

“Oh, Christ, Castellano,” he sighed. “Am I glad to see
you.
”

She was in a state of shock. “I had to be the one who found the body. You can’t believe how—”

“Who?” he interrupted impatiently. “
WHO
is it?”

“Alison Redmond,” Laura answered, and then with a glazed expression continued to describe the trauma of her discovery.
“She used a scalpel to slit her wrists. The whole goddamn bathroom is spattered with blood.” She swayed slightly. “Shit, my head is spinning. I’ve got to sit down.”

Barney put his arm around her waist and helped her to a chair in a corner of the lobby. It was only then that the shock waves began to overtake him. Someone he knew had actually ended her life.

“Laura, do you have any idea why she did it?”

“Hell, I don’t have a clue. All I know is …” Her voice broke. “All I know is there she was lying in a pool of blood on the goddamn floor.” Now she lost all control and she was sobbing too intensely to be able to speak.

“Excuse me, Miss Castellano,” said a familiar voice.

Both of them had been too preoccupied to notice the approach of Dean Holmes.

“Laura found the body, sir, I’m sure you understand—” Barney explained.

“Of course,” he said, as Laura tried to pull herself together. “Alison was such a brilliant girl. She didn’t seem to confide in the other girls, but I’m told she was closer to you, Laura. I was hoping you might be able to help us. Why don’t we go down to the cafeteria for something to drink?”

Laura looked up at the older man. His face seemed strangely devoid of emotion. Perhaps that was part of being a doctor—not showing emotion, even if you felt it.

“May I come, too?” Barney asked, knowing Laura needed support.

“Of course, Livingston. Perhaps you can help shed light on this unfortunate event.”

They sat in the unlit cafeteria—the semidarkness seemed appropriate for the somber conversation—drinking tea in paper cups from the dispensing machine. An assistant had brought Holmes a folder bulging with Alison Redmond’s record.

He took a sip of tea and then began the inquiry.

“Laura, did you notice anything unusual in Alison’s behavior?”

Laura shrugged. “I just know she took her classes seriously. She was very dedicated.…”

“I’d like to know about pathologies—changes in mood, quirks, that sort of thing.”

“Dr. Holmes,” Laura began again, “when I said dedicated
I kind of
meant
it as a pathology. She was obsessive about her work.”

“Ah, obsessive,” Holmes remarked, apparently gratified by terminology remotely medical.

“If I might add,” Barney interrupted politely, “she was incredibly competitive. I mean, I know we’re all that way, but she was sort of like a white-hot locomotive waiting to explode.”

Barney paused to see if his contribution had found favor with the dean.

“Can you be more specific, Livingston?”

“Well, for example, she started out at our Anatomy table. But the minute she got wind that Seth Lazarus was a better cutter, she pressured Lubar into switching her to work with Seth. I mean, she had this compulsion about having to be the best. It’s my guess that she set incredibly high standards for herself and when she discovered she wasn’t Number One, she couldn’t deal with it.”

The dean was silent for a moment, scrutinizing Barney’s face.

At last he spoke. “The girl
was
Number One.”

“Oh?” said Barney.

Dean Holmes spread several documents on the table.

“Here’s her entire record. She led the class in everything. Even Pfeifer, who’s extremely demanding, had her slated for a ninety-nine—which would have been unprecedented.”

Holy shit, thought Barney. So
she
was the one on top of the Biochemistry totem pole.

“Did she have any romantic involvements, Laura?”

“No,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation, and wondered how much more she should say. “To be frank, I think she was afraid of men. I think her aggressiveness was counterphobic—if I’m using that term correctly. I mean, being so much better is certainly one way to keep them away.”

Holmes nodded. “That’s an interesting hypothesis. I’ll see how her psychiatrist responds to that. She was seeing someone in Student Health on a regular basis.”

A voice called out in a loud whisper from the front of the cafeteria. “Dean Holmes, could I speak to you for a minute, please?”

The dean nodded his silvery mane and then said to Barney and Laura, “Excuse me, I won’t be long.”

Barney and Laura waited in the darkness.

“I feel like such an asshole,” he said.

“Barney,” she countered, “we both said the same things. How the hell could we have known she was Number One until he told us? I mean, she was so damn secretive.…”

When the dean returned to their table, he was holding a tan spiral notebook with the Med School seal emblazoned on it.

He did not sit down but merely said, “You’ve both been very helpful. Thank you.”

It was clear they were dismissed. But Barney could not walk away and leave the mystery unsolved.

“Dean Holmes … sir, may I ask you what’s going on?”

“That’s privileged information, Livingston.”

Barney persisted. “Sir, just two minutes ago all three of us were having a ‘privileged’ conversation. If you trusted us then, why won’t you trust us now?”

“I suppose you’ve got a point there, Livingston. And, frankly, but for our little conversation I wouldn’t have known what Alison’s scrawl could have referred to.”

“What scrawl, sir?”

“See for yourself.” The dean handed him the notebook. “Look at the last ten pages.”

With Laura at his shoulder Barney opened the notebook to the end.

Three words were repeated line after line, page after page:

All Barney could think was, Why the hell didn’t her shrink pick up on this? What the hell was he doing in these sessions, polishing his nails?