Extreme Measures (39 page)

With a surprising mix of charm, bombast, candor, and legal acumen, Felix Connolly cut a swath for Eric through the brier patch of a district court criminal arraignment. Along the way he succeeded in persuading the assistant district attorney to drop the charge of possession with intent to distribute, and the judge to lower, by 50 percent, the $10,000 bail recommended by the prosecution. Finally, after the date was set for a hearing to determine probable cause, and the case was remanded to the Suffolk County Superior Court, Connolly rushed Eric out of the building, past the screeching gaggle of reporters, and into his VW.

“Nice going,” Eric said as Connolly inched through the crowd and into the flow of traffic. “You’re very good at what you do.”

Connolly acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

“In case you don’t know it,” he said, “Bernard Nelson is too. Your friend is lucky she found him.”

“I still can’t believe what she’s been through.”

“You haven’t done too badly in that department yourself.”

“I guess. Well, I think we’re past the last of the damn reporters.”

“Don’t bank on it,” the lawyer said, reaching behind Eric’s seat for a newspaper and handing it to him. “I suspect some of them are following us right now. You’re big stuff. This is the early edition of the
Herald
. Take a look at it, and then I’ll show you the extra they came out with a few hours ago.”

The early edition contained a four-inch, double
column, bylined story on page 3, dealing essentially with the crusade of one brave doctor to locate the body and tissue specimens of a woman rumored to have been autopsied alive. Except for a brief bit of biographical material about Eric, the story consisted entirely of
No comments
and
Absolutely untrues
from hoispital officials and the medical examiner’s office. A quote from Joe Silver denied the rumors about the living autopsy, and added: “Dr. Najarian has been at this hospital for five years, and knows better than to speak to the press about any hospital business, especially when he has none of the facts.”

As damaging as the early edition was to Eric’s hope of a continued career at White Memorial, when compared to the extra it was a ringing endorsement.

ZOMBI DOC CHASES THE UNDEAD

The front-page article, complete with a picture of a dazed Eric being led from the pathology office by two policemen, would have been at least a nine on any ten-point scale of sensationalist journalism. Wherever the truth had eluded the reporter, or in certain spots where the facts had not jibed with the rest of the article, fabricated pieces had simply been thrown in. Interviews with Ivor Blunt, the Wayland police, and several staff members of the hospital painted the picture of a high-strung, overworked young man who had recently been turned down for a promotion to associate E.R. director and had turned to cocaine to keep himself going. His obsession with the poison tetrodotoxin, it was suggested by Blunt and others, was clearly the result of a cocaine-induced paranoia.

“Charles Manson, move over,” Eric muttered, as he scanned the article.

A sidebar replacing the original article on page 3 resurrected the arrest and subsequent disappearance of Craig Worrell, whom the
Herald
had dubbed “Sex Doc.” The reporter, who, Eric mused, was probably a department chief after this piece of work, had not
missed the fact that the position “Zombi Doc” had once been the leading candidate for was the one “Sex Doc” had vacated. Eric wondered if even hoary White Memorial would be able to survive this latest assault on its reputation.

“It’ll pass,” Connolly said.

“At this point I almost don’t care. I just really want to see Laura, that’s all. Are we headed there?”

“We most definitely are not. Like I said, there are probably a few reporters and who knows what other manner of vermin following us. Bernard Nelson is worried about your friend’s safety. And take it from someone who’s known him for a long time, Bernard Nelson doesn’t worry without cause.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, and please don’t take this too personally, the first thing we ought to do is find someplace for you to shower.”

Eric smiled ruefully and buried his face in his hands.

“No offense taken,” he said. “I don’t know what shape my place is in, but I picked up my spare key before they arrested me, so at least I can get in there.”

“I’ll go up with you,” Connolly said. “My IOU to Bernard isn’t paid off until I deliver you to your friend with no one following us.”

“How’re you going to be sure of that?”

Connolly smiled enigmatically.

“For right now, let’s leave that one between me and the bug,” he said.

Mindless of the chaos in his apartment, Eric hurried to the bedroom and called Bernard Nelson’s office. Laura had learned of his arrest from one of the all-news radio stations.

“You made the TV news as well,” she said. “I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.”

“That makes us even. I couldn’t believe how close you came to getting killed.”

“Eric, did Connolly tell you about Donald Devine?”

“He did, yes. I think you were crazy to take such a chance.”

“You don’t really.”

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t really. I just wish I had been in the crazy place you were instead of the crazy place I was.”

“I want to hear all about it. Has the lawyer told you to be careful coming here?”

“He has. He’s figured out a way, but he won’t tell me what it is.”

“Great, because, Eric, something very weird is going on, and Donald Devine is—I mean
was
—right in the middle of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’d rather tell you all the details when I see you, but one of the ledgers we took from his safe has a long list of clients, listed only by initials and dates. After each set of initials there are several other abbreviations and names.”

“Yes?”

“We’ve been able to piece together that shortly after each date, Devine—or someone else driving his hearse—drove from Boston to somewhere in southern Utah. Dozens of trips.”

“I really want to see that book.”

“You will. And, Eric, there’s more. The last entry in the book was never completed. It’s just a date and the initials L.L.”

“L.L.?”

“Eric, it’s the date when Reed Marshall pronounced that woman dead.”

“Loretta Leone! Devine already had her initials in his book?”

“It appears so.”

“Laura, did you check the date in February when—”

“There’s an entry for that date too,” she cut in. “The initials are P.T.”

“We’ll figure out what that means,” Eric said excitedly. “Hold tight. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

Eric said goodbye and gently replaced the receiver.

“Sounds like some things are beginning to happen,” the lawyer observed.

“They are that,” Eric said. “Hopefully, Mr. Connolly, by the time we’re done, there are going to be some people at White Memorial who will be in need of your services at least as much as I was. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but what they did to Laura yesterday and to me last night suggests that we’re jabbing at an exposed nerve. Between what I’ve learned and what Laura and your friend Bernard have got, I think we may already have a lot of the pieces. And somewhere out there is the glue that will help us put those pieces together.”

Felix Connolly pulled a small silver flask from his suit-coat pocket and unscrewed the top.

“In that case, my man,” he said, “I drink to glue.”

Rocky DiNucci slipped his hand into the pocket of his tattered, oil-stained chinos and assured himself that nothing had happened to the sixteen dollars he had been paid for sweeping out two warehouses and emptying barrels along the East Boston docks. He was headed for Stella’s Package Store, where he planned to treat himself to some decent zinfandel, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and maybe even his favorite, a prosciutto and genoa sub with the works. Rocky was being especially careful, knowing that as often as not his money seemed to find a way to disappear before he could spend it.

Once a promising middleweight, DiNucci had absorbed far too many punches over the years, and had done further damage to his nervous system with
cheap wine. Still, he prided himself on being a “good Joe who never done nobody no harm,” and he delighted in showing anyone who would look the cracked photographic proof that he had once been a sparring partner of middleweight champ Carmen Basilio.

Rocky spent the cold months in any of a number of shelters around the city, but for most of the year he lived in a makeshift shanty of wood, cardboard, and sheet metal, tucked beneath an elevated stretch of Route 1A, half a mile from the waterfront.

He could read decently and even write some, and he still knew the fight game well enough to help out at Cardarello’s Gym when they asked him to. And from time to time over the years, he had tried to pull his life together—to get detoxed and put together enough money to get a year-round place. But always, within a short time, he was back at the bottle and back under Route 1A.

Rocky left Stella’s with two packs of Camels, half a dozen boiled eggs, two half-gallons of Cribrari zinfandel, and nearly six dollars in cash. He gave all of his change—seventy-eight cents—to two boys who asked to see his photograph. Then he headed home, thinking about how he would spend what remained of his pay, and where he could safely hide it until he did.

The afternoon had gone from sunny to gray, and Rocky was sure a storm was on the way. He stopped at a vacant lot near the crossover to the highway and poked around until he had picked up several pieces of scrap metal to patch his roof. Then he crossed the road to his hut. That the plywood door was partly open didn’t bother him too much. Older kids were always playing war and using his place for a fort. And since he kept the things that mattered to him in the canvas shoulder sack he carried everywhere, getting robbed was never a worry.

“Hello,” Rocky called out as he approached. “Anybody in there?”

There was no response.

He set his package aside and inched open the door with his foot. There, lying face-up on the pile of old blankets he used as a bed, was the body of a man. It wasn’t until Rocky knelt beside the motionless form that he realized it wasn’t a corpse. The man was merely asleep.

Rocky poured himself a glass of wine, settled down on a wooden carton, and studied his guest. Through the dim light he could just make out the details of the man’s face. It was a face he felt certain he had seen before—a face he knew. But from where?

After nearly an hour and two more glasses of zinfandel, Rocky cleared his throat. Then he cleared it more loudly. Finally he reached out with his foot and nudged the intruder on the thigh. The man stirred, then woke. With great effort he pushed himself to a sitting position.

With the first good look at the man’s pale, thin face—his cracked lips caked with dry blood; his glazed, empty eyes—the name of a fighter flashed into Rocky’s mind. It wasn’t that this man and Jesse Kidd looked alike, but that they had the same look. It was the look of death—the look on Jesse Kidd’s face as he struggled to get up from the canvas during a six-round prelim against Rocky one Friday night in a smoky Newark arena. Kidd never did make it to his feet, and ten minutes after the knockdown he was dead.

“Hi, pal, don’t be afraid. My name’s Rocky. This here’s my place. You okay?”

Scott Enders stared at him for a time and then shook his head.

“I think I have some broken ribs,” he said. “It hurts to breathe.”

“You from around here?”

“No, from Cleveland.”

“Cleveland, huh? I could swear I seen you before. What’s your name?” Scott pointed at the tag sewn on
his shirt. “Bob, huh?” Rocky sniffed. “Whassat, some kind of prison shirt or something?”

“I don’t know,” Scott said.

“You want a drink?”

“Yes.”

Rocky started to hand him the bottle, but then changed his mind and passed over the half-filled glass, keeping the bottle for himself.

“You got any money?” he asked.

“Some.”

Scott pulled out what remained of the bills Eddie Garcia had given him, crying out softly at the pain that exploded from where the hijacker had kicked him in the chest. Several times during the trip from Ohio he had coughed up blood in the bathroom of the bus. Now, every breath was an agonizing effort. After he arrived at the terminal in Boston, a cab driver had taken twenty dollars of his money and had dropped him off somewhere in East Boston. The next thing Scott remembered was being nudged awake.

Rocky DiNucci eyed the money.

“Well, Bob,” he said, “if you want to pay me a few bucks rent, I’ll be happy to share this place with you.”

“I’ve got to find Mrs. Gideon’s horse.”

“Right, sure you do.”

Scott knew he was making no sense to the man. He wanted very much just to head off—to try to find whatever it was Mrs. Gideon’s horse represented; to try to find himself. But the long journey and the unremitting pain in his chest had sapped him dry. He felt at once hot and terribly cold, and all he could think about was sleep. He handed the bills over and then lay back on the blankets.