Loving Time (16 page)

“I should take your head off for that,” he fumed, stomping along the sidewalk punching the air.

“I know. It just slipped out, I don’t know why. Forgive me?” She shook her head hard, pumping her own legs faster to get out of a bad situation. “I know you had nothing to do with it.”

“The resident gave him the wrong prescription,” Bobbie raged.

“I know, Bobbie. Everybody knows that. You weren’t responsible.”

“And
Alice
handed it to him.”

“I know, you’re right.”

“So why did I have to take the fall? You tell me that!”

“I don’t know, Bobbie.” She didn’t remind him about his knocking out an attending physician—not even a full-time member of the staff—after the patient’s death. Or that the committee had concluded he was a danger to the community, quite apart from the question of his guilt or innocence in the matter at hand.

“Bastards.” He strode north toward the brownstone on Ninety-ninth Street, where Gunn lived on the fourth floor. He had moved into the basement flat occupied by his mother the last year of her life. It did not surprise him at all that the head of the hospital was being questioned in a patient death. That bitch Clara Treadwell ruined people’s lives every day. She’d ruined his life. It was about time someone got on her case.

“Bobbie?”

“They won’t get her for it,” he muttered angrily.

“No,” she agreed.

“There’s no justice.”

“No … Bobbie?”

They were nearing Ninety-ninth Street. “What?”

“Will you eat with me?” Gunn asked softly.

He hesitated, chugging along for almost a block before he answered. “I don’t know. Maybe. If it don’t take too long.”

“It won’t take long,” Gunn promised eagerly.

J
ason first heard about the death of Raymond Cowles from his friend Charles, who was in private practice all the way across town on East Seventy-ninth Street. Charles hadn’t heard it from a colleague. He’d heard it from his wife, Brenda, who was the chair of some fund-raising benefit for the Centre. Brenda came back from a meeting on Tuesday with the news that the great goddess Clara Treadwell had been sleeping with one of her patients, that the patient had killed himself, and they had all better fasten their seat belts for the rough ride ahead. Jason fastened his seat belt.

“I’m sorry to get you in here so early” was the first thing Clara Treadwell said to Jason when they met at the elevators on the twentieth floor at two minutes to eight on Wednesday.

“No problem,” Jason replied, although to meet Clara’s urgent request he’d had to cancel a patient he’d been seeing at that hour for the past three years.

“Thank you, anyway.” Clara extended her gloved hand with a small smile that acknowledged her advantage.

Jason offered his hand, only to have his bones crunched in a powerful grip. He had a good six inches on her, at least seventy pounds, and was surprised by her strength. Another smile curved Clara’s lips as she turned down the long hall to lead him to the one place in the hospital he rarely saw. Jason knew all the other floors in the Centre as well as he knew his own apartment. He had done his three-year training there, qualified as a psychoanalyst, and had been invited to teach there long before anyone in his class. If he had been chief resident, he would have had an office in the executive suite on the twentieth floor and been at home there, too. But he hadn’t been chief resident. His year the post had gone to the first Latino. Now the chief resident was a Hasidic Jew with tight
little curls around his ears, a belly so big he didn’t know where to wear his pants, and a leather yarmulke.

Jason scratched his beard as he watched Clara unlock two separate locks in the door of the executive suite. Inside, she hit a few light switches, then led the way to her office. She had to find another key to unlock the door there, too.

“I didn’t realize security was so tight up here,” Jason remarked.

“Oh, we’ve had to tighten up in the last year. There have been some incidents.… Just mischief.” Clara shrugged out of her cashmere coat, unlocking yet another door and disappearing into the closet. After a moment, she came out wearing a pale green suit, the color of spring moss, tightly fitted over her breasts and hips.

“Please sit down,” she said formally. She indicated a leather tub chair opposite the vast expanse of polished cherry and tooled leather that was her desk.

Jason sat and studied the view of the river. It was a sparkling November morning. The rushing water twenty stories below shimmered in the early light. “How can I help you?” he asked.

Clara’s smile reappeared. The curve of her too-red lips sought to inspire closeness and confidence but lacked the warmth that might convince someone as sensitive to manipulation as Jason. His parents had been chilly masters of guilt and control when he was a child. Emma told him he could be pretty good at it himself. She didn’t mean it as a compliment.

“You’ve come a long way in a short period of time, Jason,” Clara said, studying him intently. She didn’t answer his question. “I’ve heard you speak, of course. I’ve read your papers. You get the highest marks as a teacher, both from the residents and medical students.” She smiled. “It’s apparent you’re our best teacher. And of course as a supervisor, you’re very sought-after. No one feels his training here is complete without working with you.”

Jason shrugged modestly. “Well, that’s very flattering,” he murmured.

“It’s more than flattering; it’s the truth. I’ve decided we can’t let you get away.”

“Oh?” Jason laughed. “Where exactly was I going?”

“You’re going places, there’s no question about
that
. A person of your gifts, your teaching abilities, your integrity …” Clara smiled again.

It wasn’t clear to Jason what was in the air, so he crossed his legs and smiled back.

“It’s people like you and me, Jason, who are going to be the leaders of our field in the new century. Yes, it’s true. I want you there with me, at the top of this institution, in Washington—wherever I go.”

Jason was taken aback. He was no follower. “I—”

“No, don’t thank me,” Clara interrupted smoothly. “Every gifted person needs a mentor and promotor. I’m going to be yours, that’s all there is to it.” The smile faded from Clara’s face as she lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Her voice took on a musing tone. “I’m going to tell you a little story, Jason. My first analysand was a young man named Raymond Cowles. My supervisor was Harold Dickey. At the time, Harold was the head of the genetics department, was on the executive committee, president of associations. A really big cheese.” Another faint smile. “He was the best, and so was I.”

No response from Jason. He was the best, too.

“I don’t suppose you ever forget your first patient in analysis. Raymond was a student in his early twenties when he came into Student Services and was worked up by Intake. He was considered for disposition as an appropriate patient for psychoanalysis and accepted by the Centre, all in the usual way. He was offered to me, and I accepted him with a good deal of excitement.

“Ray was everything a young analyst could hope for. He was highly motivated, highly intelligent. He had the capacity to maintain an observing ego, the capacity to free-associate.
He even dreamed. He was handsome, well educated, knew literature and music, liked good food. His problem was persistent, recurrent homosexual fantasies that had resisted his efforts to suppress them by concentration and willpower. His was a clear case of homosexual fantasies as a defense against unconscious anxieties over heterosexual impulses. I thought it would be an interesting and profitable case. And it was.”

Jason said nothing.

“Last Sunday Raymond Cowles died under mysterious circumstances. The police are looking into it. They suspect he committed suicide.” She shook her head, disagreeing. “I presented the case at meetings. It was a classic case. A successful case. I doubt Ray committed suicide.”

Clara checked her watch. “I have a meeting soon.”

Jason shifted in his chair. He had to leave soon, too, and now it was clear to him what was coming.

“I want you to review Ray’s case,” Clara said suddenly.

“Why me?” Jason asked.

“You’re an assistant professor without any administration duties, is that correct?”

Jason nodded. Yes, he was an attending physician there, not on staff.

“You are a supervisor?”

Again Jason nodded.

“Long hours, a lot of responsibility. No pay for any of it, correct?”

Jason watched her face.
So
?

“Well, you’d like that to change, wouldn’t you? A full professorship, a big job at the Centre, more time to do your own work?”

“I wasn’t aware there were any openings.” Jason scratched his beard.

“Well, something’s coming up, but I’m not really at liberty to discuss it at this time.… I have copies of the intake notes, my notes, Harold’s notes. The paper I presented on the case.”

“Ah …” That sounded like a lot. Why so much documentation on such an old case? Jason hesitated.

“I believe you know the police.” Clara glanced at her watch, impatient now.

Her statement startled Jason. “What if it was a suicide?” he asked Clara, keeping his voice impassive.

“Ben Hartley called me at home last night. He’s counsel for the hospital, as you know. Ben got a call yesterday from the lawyer of the insurance company that employed and insured Raymond. He was most upset about it. The bottom line is that if Ray Cowles was murdered, the insurance company has to pay a million dollars to his widow. There’s no out for them. If Ray was a suicide, they still pay, but they see a window of opportunity for getting their money back and more. Hartley told me the company and the widow intend to sue the Centre for malpractice. And I’m named in the suit, too.” A tic in Clara’s cheek that Jason hadn’t noticed before began to jump around when she said the doctor’s nightmare word:
malpractice.

“But certainly many years have passed since the patient’s analysis and termination with you. How could it possibly have any bearing on his suicide now?” Jason was puzzled.

“I put the file together for you. I want you to take it.”

“Clara, what exactly am I looking for?”

“I started treatment with him eighteen years ago. I handled the case correctly. Hal was my supervisor throughout. I did nothing without his approval. We did everything by the book. You have no conflict of interest here, no axe to grind. You’re respected. I have confidence in you.” She spread her hands out palms-up on the desk, as if she had answered his question.

“What is there for the insurance company to hang their case on? I can’t help you unless I know what the issue is,” Jason insisted.

Clara turned her hands over and studied her manicure. “All I want is for you to review the original file. It’s not a hard
one, Jason. I want you to sit in on the meetings with the lawyers as my consultant, take Dickey’s place as Quality Assurance in this matter, be my liaison with the police. If it all works out well, as I expect it will, you’ll be in an excellent position for—well, we’ll talk about that later.”

“I’ll review your old file and examine the case.…” Jason said slowly.

“And talk to the police?” Clara asked. “My office has put in several calls, but they haven’t been returned.” Clara’s eyes were on him, bright with her conviction that he could straighten out this mess.

“I will call the police,” he heard himself promising.

“I’m counting on you, Jason. I know you’re good.”

Jason’s empty stomach heaved. There had to be more to this than Clara told him. Maybe the gossip that Clara had been sleeping with Cowles was true. Jason’s instincts told him to avoid the whole thing. He longed for escape from another police investigation and direct involvement in a messy hospital scandal. All he wanted was to do things New Yorkers never do. He wanted to meet his wife at the airport, make love to her, have a normal life.

Clara pushed her chair back and pulled open her desk drawer. Eyes still on Jason, she reached inside. Then she screamed and snatched her hand back.

“Oh, my
God
!” She held her hand out, staring in shock at the deep cut in the fleshy part of her palm. Blood dripped all over her green blotter.

Jason lurched to his feet. “What—?”

“I’ve been stabbed. Get me some water,” Clara commanded, pointing at a door. She kept her bleeding hand extended.

Behind the door, Jason found a small kitchen and filled a glass for her. He grabbed some paper towels. When he returned to her office, there was blood all over Clara’s desk and she was raging at the device that had cut her.

“Look at this. Will you
look
at this!” she hissed. The file
she’d been looking for was on her desk now. On top of it was a scalpel plunged from below through a condom so the deadly blade faced up.

“Let’s see. How bad is it?” Jason addressed his attention to the wound first.

“It’s nothing, just a scratch.” Impatiently, Clara grabbed the paper towels from him and pressed them to her hand, her attention fixed on the item on her desk.

“What’s that?” Jason leaned over.

Shocked, Clara was staring at the message, on hospital stationery, that lay under the now-bloodied scalpel and condom. In words sliced and pasted together from newspaper cutouts it said:
YOU’LL PAY FOR THE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS
.

“This is really sick.”

Yes, it was, and very cleverly done. “How’s your hand?”

Clara shook her head, uninterested in the gash. “Look at this mess—my desk, my suit, everything.”

“I think we’d better call the police.”

“No! I’m going to have to deal with it.” Clara checked her watch and pushed her chair back. “Jason, I’d like to talk further with you, but I must get myself cleaned up.” Her eyes measured him coolly, then she added, “Look, I’d like you to keep this in confidence for the time being.”

Jason shook his head. “Does this have anything to do with the Cowles death?”

“No!” Clara’s eyes shot down to the smeared blood on her hands. “No!” she cried again. “No, absolutely not. This is—”