No Cure for Murder (36 page)
You’ve lived too long, old man...your time is now, and thank God, I can be the agent of your ascension.
I won’t hesitate.
Nothing can stop me now.
I grasp Jacob’s IV line, and clean the injection port with alcohol...a senseless thing to do in a man about to die, but it’s hard to break old habits. I pull the syringe from my coat pocket and appraise it in the dim light. It could be water or salt solution but it’s a massive dose of Insulin.
I look up in silent prayer...thank you Lord, and then insert the stainless steel needle into Jacob’s IV port. I tremble with anticipation.
I shake Jacob’s arm, then push the plunger flushing the medication into his body.
Jacob opens his eyes. As they widened with recognition, he says, “It’s you. I don’t believe it...Why?”
“Relax, Jacob. It’ll be over in a minute.”
Jacob begins to shake.“I’m hungry.”
“It’s the insulin Jacob...500 units. Not even the venerable Jacob Weizman can survive 500 units of insulin intravenously. You’re plain out of luck, you son-of-a-bitch.”
Jacob closes his eyes and violently shakes, his bed rattling.
“Thank you, Jacob. It’s been an experience. I’ll never forget. The memory will keep me warm on cold nights.
As I turn for the door, the room floods with light.
Lola Weizman stood at the entrance with Shelly Kahn and a uniformed police officer.
“You’re not going anywhere, Zoe,” said Lola. “What have you done?”
“Whatever I’ve done, it’s too late for your precious husband.” She smiled. “By now what’s left of his ancient brain has turned to mush. He’s a vegetable,” she rejoiced, laughing. “The brilliant Jacob Weizman is a vegetable.”
“What kind of vegetable?” came the soft, Austrian-accented voice from the bed. “A leek...I always wanted to be a leek.”
Zoe spun to face Jacob, her eyes wide with disbelief. “How?”
“Didn’t you enjoy my acting, Zoe? The hunger. The shaking...not bad for an old-timer, although it really killed my back.”
“How?” Zoe repeated.
Jacob lifted the covers.“It was Lola’s idea.”
Zoe’s eyes followed the clear plastic IV line. It moved up Jacob’s arm and into a small plastic IV bag rather than his vein.
Shelly snapped the cuffs on Zoe. “A smart woman, that Lola. She protected her husband and gave us all the evidence we need to put you in jail where you belong.”
Zoe lowered her head. Her shoulders shook. Tears ran from her eyes.
“By the way,” Shelly continued, “I wouldn’t plan on collecting from your false arrest suit against Brier Hospital and the Berkeley P.D.”
The next morning, Warren Davidson, Arnie Roth, and Jack Byrnes sat at Jacob’s bedside. Lola took a washcloth and wiped Jacob’s face.
“How did you know, Jacob?” asked Warren.
“I didn’t know. Not until the end. It was Lola.”
“It killed me to keep my suspicions away from the old man,” she said, “but Jacob may have the world’s worst poker face. If Jacob knew, Zoe would have known. I’ve been a psychotherapist so long that I can’t separate my person from my profession. That’s what happens when your business is people and you must live with them too.”
Arnie smiled. “Maybe we should be careful what we say around you.”
“Maybe, but it won’t work. Normal people don’t act their lives, they live them. Anyway, Margaret Cohen, Jacob’s office manager, was the first to take notice of Zoe’s behavior. What she described and what Jacob and I saw, was an excellent example of the classic narcissistic personality.”
“That’s not exactly foreign in the medical community,” said Warren.
“You’re right, of course. Their psychopathology drives them to succeed, to uphold and maintain the front they’ve created for themselves. Well-compensated narcissists thrive in competitive environments where ruthlessness and the absence of a conscience guarantees success. I have nothing against narcissists...some of my best friends are a little narcissistic, but who’d like to live with one?”
“There must be more,” said Jack.
“Much more, but no real smoking gun. Zoe was envious of Jacob, in retrospect, pathologically so.”
“I’ve worked my entire life to earn the respect, and yes, the envy of others,” said Jacob. “It’s the psychopathology of the oppressed, of the survivor, the desire to prove that your longevity meant something. The drive to feel as good as, or better than, anyone else led me to what I’ve achieved in life, but at what cost?”
Lola grasped Jacob’s hand. “You never had to prove anything to me. Maybe, for the first time at the age of eighty-eight, you’ll see that you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone, yourself included.”
Lola continued. “Margaret noticed that life had become more complicated since Zoe’s arrival. At first, she wrote it off as resistance to change or an unavoidable alteration in the office group dynamic. We talked about it and hoped that with time, we’d adjust.
“Then came the problems: Zoe’s lying, her failure to carry her load, her inappropriate emotional distance from her patients, and her odd past religious affiliations. What pissed Margaret off the most was Zoe’s searching for any opportunity to demean Jacob behind his back. Several docs saw this too, but didn’t understand it. I hate to say this in front of you guys, but all that’s pretty par for the course when you’re dealing with humans.”
“Cynical,” said Jacob. “Very cynical.”
“Or realistic,” Lola responded. “Then came the real warning signs: Zoe’s paranoia about an affair her husband wasn’t having, and her discordant reaction to the deaths of Jacob’s patients.”
“Discordant reaction?” asked Warren.
“She was more upset about Jacob’s reaction to the deaths, than to the deaths themselves.”
“Still,” said Warren, “Multiple murders?”
“Trust me,” Lola began, “I don’t have the entire psych profile but my guess is that Zoe was seething with anger and resentment, maybe expanding into the delusional or psychotic.”
“You’re not giving us the coming attractions for her trial, are you, Lola?” asked Arnie.
Lola scanned the faces. “What other defense does she have?”
Warren smiled. “I hear you’re up for an Academy Award nomination, Jacob.”
“Maybe I should sit down,” said Jacob.
“Your performance that night,” said Warren, “the confusion, the memory impairment . . . very convincing, I heard.”
“Jacob was perfect,” said Lola.
“Maybe too perfect,” said Warren with a smile. “Are you sure it was an act?”
As Byron watched the Berkeley Police tow truck raise the front of Zoe’s car to take it away, he saw again the disquieting faded bumper sticker: No Jesus, No Peace; Know Jesus; Know Peace.
I didn’t understand how she embraced that sentiment, he thought. Now I’m more confused than ever.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
San Francisco Chronicle
Dateline, Berkeley, California.
Chief Ira Green announced an arrest in the Brier Hospital murders.
Zoe Spelling, a family practitioner, was placed into custody yesterday on multiple counts of murder and attempted murder.
Dr. Spelling practiced for five years in the Berkeley community as the partner of Dr. Jacob Weizman .
No details are available regarding the causes of these alleged assaults.
The staff and the administration have given a collective sigh of relief at the arrest.
A nurse stuck her head into Jacob’s room the next afternoon. “I have a Dr. Spelinsky on the line. Can I put him through?”
Jacob nodded, and when the phone rang, Lola picked up the hand piece. “We thought we’d be hearing from you, Bernie.”
“My God, Lola. I had no idea.”
“Pardon my French, Bernie, but you’re full of shit.”
“Lola, listen to me...”
“To more lies? I don’t think so. You had to know something. We were your friends. You should have told us. We would have helped.”
The line remained silent for a minute. “I’m an old man. I love Zoe. I thought she was better, or maybe I made myself believe that she was well.”
Lola shook her head at Jacob. “I’m waiting, Bernie. Don’t forget to whom you’re talking. I’ve seen just about every form of psychopathology.”
“It started when Zoe went to prep school in upstate New York. They sealed the records of her assaults on several girls and they referred her for psychiatric evaluation. Initially, since Zoe was so well compensated and functional, and so damn smart, they refused to make a diagnosis. Later, after extensive evaluation and treatment at The Menninger Clinic, Zoe received the diagnosis of Paranoid Schizophrenia, although her psychotic symptoms were transient at best. Later they labeled her as having a Borderline Personality Disorder.”
“I know the problems of categorizing such patients,” said Lola, “but what about her behavior?”
“I really don’t know. If you think I may be blind to Zoe and her problems, you should see her parents. They don’t have a clue.”
“I don’t believe she just came here and started her killing spree. You need to take a good look everywhere she worked. What you find may surprise you.”
“I’m so sorry, Lola. Can I talk with Jacob?”
Lola handed the phone to Jacob.
“If I had known it would come to this, Jacob, I...”
“Bernie, damn it, you should have said something...anything. We would have been in this together and perhaps our patients would still be alive.”
“You can’t make me feel worse than I already do. I tried to live a good life, an honorable life. I tried to help others or at least not to hurt them. This will be my legacy.”
“Don’t worry about your legacy, Bernie. Worry about your conscience.”
“I’m hearing a lot of holier than thou crap, Jacob. You’re telling me everything was perfect with Zoe, that you had no inkling of a problem?”
“Bernie, please. She’s your granddaughter, a graduate of Columbia University, College of Physicians and Surgeons with incredible recommendations, and who could resist hiring someone awarded Resident of the Year.”
“Resident of the Year?”
“That’s what she said.”
“I know all about her achievements, but never heard of that one. I think she exaggerated.”
“Exaggeration is nothing compared to all she’s done.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Bernie.
“Look, we all make mistakes. We justify and rationalize our decisions to protect our frail egos. Could we have done better? Probably, but that doesn’t change your responsibility one iota.”
Later that day, Jacob saw Lola and Marion Krupp in heated conversation in the corridor outside his room. He heard the raised voices and saw the gesturing, the heads shaking yes and no. Finally, Lola nodded and Marion entered the room, Lola followed.
She walked up to Jacob and grasped his hand and smiled.
Jacob pulled his hand away. “What the hell.”
Marion looked down. “I just want you to know that I was worried.”
“That I wouldn’t die?”
“Good one,” she said, laughing.
Jacob stared at Lola who stood mute.
“I know we’ve had our differences, Jacob...is it okay if I call you Jacob?”
Jacob remained silent.
“I’ve had to do some soul searching,” she continued. “I’ve been angry and bitter. The only thing that kept me from total destruction was Abby, my little girl.”
When Marion leaned over to hug him, he turned away in discomfort.
This is like being hugged by Attila the Hun, he thought.
Marion grabbed Jacob’s other hand. “We owe so much to you. I can never thank you enough.”
“Marion, I’m overwhelmed by this incredible change in how you feel about me, but I don’t understand it.”
Marion turned to Lola. “He doesn’t know?”
Lola shook her head, no.
“The little girl they presented at grand rounds, that was my Abby. You made the diagnosis of typhus. You saved her life, Jacob. I’ll thank you every remaining day of my life.”
Byron sat across the bulletproof glass waiting for Zoe to arrive. This was his first visit to a jail of any kind. The discordant pastiche of tattoos, do rags, dreadlocks, short skirts and tight tops mixed with the stench of the unwashed, guests and visitors, kept Byron ill at ease.
The steel door clanged open and Zoe appeared in institutional orange. The uniformed guard looked like a prison matron from a 50s movie. She released Zoe’s chained wrists, and pulled her by the upper arm to the chair across from Byron. Zoe tried to shake her arm free, but the guard simply forced her into the chair.
