Lethal Practice (21 page)

“The people who tried to kill me.”

“Kill you!” This was in stereo. Janet and the detective seemed to move closer to each other to ward off my obvious lunacy.

“You said he’d had an accident.” He was talking to Janet now; I wasn’t even in the room for him. I cringed at how many times I’d relegated a patient to nonexistence in the same way. On the other hand, Janet took ignoring me as a designated right by marriage.

“That’s what the neighbors told me,” she answered him. “An accident. Nobody said anything about anybody trying to kill him.”

Finally the detective turned back to me. “I think you’d better go back to the beginning, sir.” Janet had grabbed the bowl, like I couldn’t be trusted with it anymore, and was studying it indecisively.

More cops were coming in the door. Some were carrying suitcases that I presumed contained kits to test for fingerprints and other traces that might lead to finding out who did this. A uniformed woman carried a camera. Another man had a small vacuum. An open case on the floor in front of me contained neat stacks of both paper and plastic bags, a box of disposable gloves, and a jumble of ties and tags.

Janet’s indecision was over. She started vomiting again.

Now the detective seemed undecided. He wanted a statement, but Janet’s retching kept getting his attention.

I took another look around at the remnants of wallpaper hanging in tatters. Our photos and prints of paintings had been hurled onto the floor, then trampled, leaving shards of glass everywhere. This was more than a violation of our property. It was a display of insanity.

I swung back to the detective. “Officer, of course I’ll make a statement, but I need to have Detective Bufort of homicide here. He’s probably at St. Paul’s.”

It took a bit to convince the cops, but one of them finally made the call.

“We got a doctor here who says someone tried to kill him and that you’d want to hear about it. His name’s Garnet.”

There was a moment’s silence. He read out my address. Then a puzzled look came over his face. Without a word he hung up. He said incredulously, to no one in particular, “Bufort’s coming right over.”

All the cops now looked at me with new respect. I guess in their circles, anyone who could grab Bufort’s attention rated.

Janet was another story. “What the hell have you gotten us into? You haven’t said a word about having cozy new friends in homicide. You told me the investigation into Kingsly’s murder hadn’t involved you much.”

I sensed a little sarcasm in how she said “homicide.” I’m that kind of sensitive guy.

I started to reassure her. “I’ve hardly seen you in three days. Besides, you never want me to talk medicine—”

“Medicine!”
she shrieked.
“Someone trying to kill you is not medicine!”

The entire force poking around the house had gone still. Our detective mumbled something about waiting for Bufort out front in case he couldn’t read the street number.

Janet looked hurt more than angry, near tears again. I grabbed her, tried to hold her, but she pulled away and said, “We had time together last night. You could have told me.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m sick this has happened, and God knows I’d die to protect you from harm, but I didn’t really know for certain the trouble I was in till now.”

She gave me a skeptical glare. I reached for her again. She let me hold her, but kept the bowl in her hands. Regaining her calm, she asked, “What else is going on at St. Paul’s?”

“The police think the killer may be a doctor in emergency,” I answered, feeling a bit sheepish.

She stiffened and then gave a long, incredulous sigh. “Why in the world wouldn’t you tell me
that?”
she demanded. Then, sounding weary, almost sad, she repeated, “We had the whole evening.”

The answer was stupid. Embarrassing. Yet I coughed it up.

“I didn’t want to ruin the mood.” What a miserable excuse. I felt her staring over my shoulder. I went on. “It was so special to be alone and close last night, I didn’t want to spoil it. And I didn’t have any proof really that this nasty business would ever have anything to do with us.”

She pulled back, looked me in the eye to make sure I was as morose as I sounded, and gave a nervous giggle through her tears. At last she put down the bowl and leaned forward to hug me hard. She pressed her hand to the back of my neck and with her lips to my ear whispered, “You’re an idiot. A romantic jerk. But I love you.”

“I’m so sorry!” I said again, adding, “I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to have done to get us in this mess.”

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“I’m fine.”

“And Muff?”

“In surgery. The car eviscerated her, but it was only the abdominal wall that got cut. Not much bleeding, and I couldn’t see any big intestinal perforations, at least not on gross examination. Otherwise she seemed intact. They’ll call.”

Janet knew as well as I did they’d have to check the entire length of her bowel for any tiny tears or punctures in the intestinal wall and that any leak, however small, could be deadly. “Let’s look around and see what’s gone,” she said.

Ever practical; move on. Don’t dwell on what’s out of our hands. It’s a doctor’s hold on keeping the nightmares away. It was Janet’s way of waiting out already inevitable endings.

The rest of the house was a replay of what I’d seen in the front, but the tour still hit me in the guts. Overhead lights had been smashed, some small fixtures ripped out; the upholstery was slashed, small tables and chairs tipped over. Anything made of glass had been dashed on the floor. Again there were great sweeping cuts across the surface of most of the walls.

But upstairs the baby’s room was the worst.

Janet had started to prepare it a few weeks ago, working at it little by little whenever she had time. She knew better than anyone what could go wrong even at four months, but the work pleased her, and starting early, she had said, would give her time to do most of it herself. So far she had painted a changing table and crib I’d assembled from a kit, and then had made a set of covers with matching curtains and wall hangings. It was these they had ripped up, defecated on, and then used to smear the walls in the rest of the house. The crib and changing table were broken.

I was seething. A tenderly prepared nest of love and perfect safety had been savaged.

I wanted these animals. That they could come even this near our unborn son unleashed in me a whole new aspect of fatherhood: I could and would kill anyone who threatened him.

Somehow it was even more disturbing that nothing seemed to have been stolen. It would take a while before Janet could do a detailed check of her jewelry or we could sort the clutter enough to verify we hadn’t lost small valuables, but so far the destruction appeared senseless. Then I reached my office on the third floor and got a surprise. File drawers were open and papers were scattered all over, but there was no wanton slashing or destruction. The place looked as though it had been searched carefully, thoroughly. Not finding what he wanted, had the intruder gone berserk in the rooms below?

As we returned downstairs, Janet was coldly silent, her own version of withdrawn fury. She paused by the wall outside the baby’s room, fingering the slash marks.

One of the cops noticed and joined her. “Funny, eh? We saw they were peculiar. Too clean a cut for a knife. More like a razor blade. But to be wielded with that force, and in those big, sweeping arcs, it would have to be one of those old straight razors. You know, with a handle.”

Janet took a step back and viewed the handiwork as if it were hanging in the Museum of Modern Art.

She quietly offered her own critique. “Or a scalpel.”

Chapter 10

Bufort arrived resentful as hell. He obviously considered this latest interruption a continuation of my personal campaign to sabotage his investigation.

Seated, silent, legs crossed, he listened to my tale and occasionally made notes in his pad. Once again I felt as if I were being given all the status of a suspect obstructing his speedy version of justice by perpetrating a hoax.

As I laid out the details of the lone figure on the golf green with the Dobermans, the whispered warning by an anonymous caller, and the footprints at our cabin door, Janet was becoming livid all over again.

Admittedly, hearing myself describe the extent of everything else I hadn’t told her was making me feel pretty sheepish—a
“How could you be such an ass?”
type of sheepish—if not outright deceitful.

Janet’s silence screamed I’d damned well gone way too far into this business, and I’d done it behind her back.

“It would appear. Dr. Garnet,” Bufort said coldly, “that you’ve attracted the interest and now the rage of a very dangerous person.”

Janet was a little less subtle. “You idiot! You’ve been dabbling like some damn amateur detective and brought God knows what down on us.”

I winced. Bufort smiled at my discomfort. Then he even tried coming to my rescue.

“Now, Mrs. Garnet—” he began.

Janet bristled. “My name, Detective, is Dr. Graceton,” she said icily.

Bufort flinched.

My turn to smile.

Bufort sighed. “I was going to say, I doubt your husband even knows what he did to make such a nuisance of himself that he’d get killed for it.”

Some rescue. His tone echoed Janet’s verdict perfectly. A bumbling fool. Man doesn’t know what he’s doing. “In fact”—he looked at me—”I suggest you write a complete account of all your movements, everything you’ve said and done in the last four days.” He leaned back, enjoyed my attempted protest, then quickly cut me off. “Everything, Doctor. Every step, every encounter, and—this is particularly important—log every word you have uttered and to whom.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Come on. That would take hours, even days.”

I turned to Janet, who was no help at all. She was busy suppressing a giggle.

“Ah, c’mon. You can’t be serious. I’ve got a department in meltdown, and a practice, and I don’t see enough of either as it is.”

No use. Janet was even nodding in agreement. I knew what they both liked best—that I’d be safely out of the way.

I felt I was being sent to my room to write lines—like I should scuff my foot, say “Gee whiz, you guys aren’t fair,” then surrender to the inevitable and stomp off. Except I didn’t have a room. We didn’t even have a house at the moment.

Bufort saw me waver and moved in with the clincher. “Listen, you’re in danger. Someone wants you dead, and your home and loved ones are obviously of no consequence to this killer. Look around you, for God’s sake! The mind behind this is frenzied, out of control. Your only job now is to help us. Until we catch whoever it is, you and your family have no life, no haven for business as usual. Accept that. Accept that and we’ve got a chance of keeping you safe.”

Bastard. He leaned back, smug but right. Then Janet and I got fingerprinted.

                                                 * * * *

They had finally gone. Except Bufort. He hung back in the remnants of our kitchen while Janet and I were in the living room figuring out what to do. He had said he wanted to know our plans before he left.

I reached over and took her hand. She squeezed back gently. The anger was gone, and now she just looked as scared as I felt.

“What do you want to do?” I asked quietly.

“I want to get this mess fixed, fast.”

I smiled at her. She had resumed her role as a doctor, fixing the physical, but both of us knew it would take a long time to heal from the other damage done.

“I’ll call Doug Perkins,” I said, and was relieved to see Janet smile at last. Doug was our contractor, an artist with wood, and he could mobilize a small army in less than twenty-four hours. His men were good, fast, and weren’t afraid to pick up a hammer or wrench to ward off goons of any kind. Doug himself was young, congenitally bald, and tough as a bull. Besides this, the man had taste.

“You want me to tell him to meet you at any particular time?” I asked.

“He knows what I like.” Janet shook her head. “No need for me to see him. Just tell Doug to get this place back the way it was. Give him carte blanche. The hell with our insurance company.”

“And you?”

“I’ll live at the hospital and at my parents’ house.” She called to Bufort. “Am I right, Detective?”

He took her question as a cue and entered the room.

“Probably.”

She continued. “Don’t get me wrong, either of you. I’m doing this to protect my baby. If I weren’t pregnant, we’d stay together and fight. Is that clear?”

This time Bufort and I both nodded. She was absolutely clear.

“Now that I’m taken care of, Detective,” she paused, “I want to know how you intend to protect my husband!”

Her glare was like a spotlight in his eyes. He looked accused.

“Uh, well, I hadn’t figured—”

She abruptly waved him silent. “Whatever my spouse has gotten himself into, it is your responsibility to protect him. Is that clear, Detective? You
will
take all measures to protect my husband!”

Bufort squirmed like an intern, sighed, and said the inevitable words. “Yes, ma’am.”

Janet’s curt nod of dismissal indicated he’d given the right answer. She touched Bufort’s arm. “Let’s take a last, quick look around. I’ll tell you if anything’s missing that I didn’t notice before.”

When they’d disappeared into the hallway, I called Doug and got him with a cacophony of hammers in the background. He explained he was on someone’s roof high in the mountains south of us.

“A cellular phone doesn’t fit your image,” I teased.

“With clients like you who want it yesterday, what choice have I got?”

It was reassuring just having him around. He listened to my description of the damage. After asking some detailed questions, he lowered his voice. “Earl, are you okay? I mean, it doesn’t sound like a routine break-in.”

I hesitated before answering. It wasn’t that I had any qualms about telling him. In fact, I intended to warn him. But it was just that it all sounded so damned strange.

“Doug,” I finally said, “the person who did this probably used a scalpel and probably already killed at least one person at the hospital. Tell your guys to be careful.”