Playing God (17 page)

"Do you want to get some lunch?" he asked. "We can talk while we eat."

"That was the point, wasn't it?"

No sense wasting any charm on this woman. Following her through the line, he watched her choose a lunch as dull as her clothes. Tuna on wheat—no veggies or condiments—and a cup of chicken soup. Tea with lemon. He'd eaten here a lot. The food was adequate. He chose beef stew and biscuits, pie and coffee. She chose a spot far from anyone else and laid out her lunch as precisely as if she were setting the table for company.

He hung his jacket over his chair and got out his notebook. "How long did you work for Dr. Pleasant?"

"Almost eight years."

"So you knew him pretty well?"

"No."

He took her through Pleasant's schedule. The procedures for arranging it. Pleasant's typical day. What Pleasant was like to work with. Who else in the office might be able to tell him about Dr. Pleasant. She doled out answers like an impoverished mother with too little food, not wasting a word.

She didn't know anything about his financial situation or who he associated with. "Who were his friends?" She really couldn't say. "Did Dr. Pleasant ever have any difficulties with patients? Were there patients who might have wanted to cause him harm?"

Her spoon stopped in midair. "Dr. Pleasant was a very competent physician."

"You're not aware of cases where his patients were upset by their treatment?"

"No. None." Speaking to the soup. He thought she hadn't liked Dr. Pleasant very much. Wondered why she'd lie for him.

"What was your relationship with Dr. Pleasant?"

"Professional."

"You didn't exchange pleasantries, stories about your weekends or vacations, never socialized with him?"

"I was an employee, not a friend. I sent presents when his children were born."

"You knew his wives?" She nodded. "Did you have any relationship with them?"

"Janet and Jennifer, Ms. Kelly, were both very pleasant on the telephone, and when they came to the office."

"Did you know Jen Kelly when her mother was a patient?"

Her answer was quick. "Her mother was never Dr. Pleasant's patient."

"Do you know of any lawsuits or complaints against Dr. Pleasant?"

She parked her teacup and wrapped one hand around the other. "I believe you should ask Ms. McFarland. Or the hospital administration." Obviously coached by Dr. Bailey.

"Was Dr. Pleasant in any financial difficulty? Did he ever receive calls from creditors, have problems with his credit cards, anything like that?" She shook her head. "Were you aware of any issues or inquiries concerning Dr. Pleasant's prescriptions or handling of drugs?"

"I really wouldn't know." She stared at her empty tray and his full one, then plucked up her sleeve and checked her watch. "Was there anything else?"

Another helping of nothing? "No. Thank you, Ms. Ling. I appreciate your time." She got up and grabbed her tray, showing more animation than she'd shown in their whole conversation. "Just one thing." She stopped, the tray swinging back toward him involuntarily, like a dowser's wand. "Do you know of any reason someone might have wanted to kill Dr. Pleasant?"

"No! No, of course not. He was a very competent physician."

"Ms. Ling, everyone makes mistakes."

"I have to go," she said. Back, he was sure, to report on the conversation to Dr. Bailey. He wondered how long it would be before Bailey called Cote again and what the complaint would be this time. A detective daring to ask questions?

He sighed for the wasted time and ate his lunch. Then he handed in his tray and went to meet Pleasant's nurse, Chris Perlin. She'd suggested they meet at a coffee shop away from the hospital. He hoped it indicated a desire to speak freely. Anything would be better than Betty Ling.

On his way out, he passed Charlie, the security guard. "You going to be around a while?" he asked. The man nodded. "Mind if I ask you some questions?"

"Why would I?"

"People around here seem mighty close-mouthed about Dr. Pleasant."

"Dr. Unpleasant, you mean."

"See you in about an hour." Burgess climbed into the Explorer and set off.

Chris Perlin was tucking into a huge burger smothered in onions, mushrooms and peppers, which spilled over her hands in oily drips and fell onto her plate. She smiled at him and nodded at the empty seat across from her. When she finished chewing, she set her burger down, wiped her hands carefully, and thrust one across the table. "Sergeant Burgess? Nice to meet you. I'm Chris." Her handshake was firm and confident. "I don't know if I can help," she said, "but fire away."

"I've just been talking to Betty Ling," he said.

"Blood from a stone, right?" She had a fresh, open smile that patients must love, and honey-brown hair in a thick braid down her back. "Don't take it personally. Betty's like that with everybody." She grabbed her burger, then hesitated. "Do you mind if I eat? Once in a blue moon I allow myself one of these cholesterol bombs and I want to savor every greasy morsel while it's hot."

"Go ahead. I was just wishing I had one myself. I ate at the hospital."

"Filling but dull," she said. She cut off a chunk of her burger and passed it to him with a couple of napkins. Burgess didn't say no.

"I'm trying to get to know Dr. Pleasant better. Trying to figure out who might have wanted to kill him and why. I'm hoping you can help."

"I didn't know him well," she said. "Stephen was a snob. He didn't believe in fraternizing with the help."

"You didn't like him?"

"Not very much. He was perfectly polite and a reasonable boss—mostly reasonable, anyway. He could be pretty finicky. The office was congenial. It was a good job for a nurse, especially the way nurses are treated these days. But I didn't like the way he was with patients."

She glanced quickly around, perhaps fearing the long reach of Dr. Bailey. "He had an arrogance, a disinterest in them as human beings, that was hateful. He trivialized their fears and dismissed their questions. Fifteen years ago, when I was a young nurse, lots of doctors were like that. But Stephen wasn't old enough to carry it off, wasn't great enough. He didn't have enough stature to play God. Wait..." She waved the burger, sending cheese and onions everywhere, then took a bite and set it down with an embarrassed grin.

"Okay. I'm a carnivorous slob. Now you know everything you need to know about me. I meant that if a doctor is so good, and so dedicated, and incredibly hard-working, maybe he can be forgiven for being impatient with people if he's also saving their lives. But that kind of stature has to be earned, and even then, it should be questioned. Don't get me wrong. He was able, ambitious, and hard-working. Good at the technical side. I just never understood why he'd become a doctor."

"You call him by his first name."

"Well, I don't go in for that me Dr. Pleasant, you Nurse Chris crap."

He nodded, unsurprised. "Sorry. I interrupted you."

She took another bite. "Nurses work more directly with patients. We see their fears, their strength, their confusion. We deal with their families. We have a different picture. But a good doctor has to get some of that. He... or she... has to give the patient information about what's going on. The patient has to be a part of the team. Stephen treated pieces of them. He looked at people and mentally drew maps on their bodies, always measuring the types of radiation treatment to be delivered, so impatient, hurrying to get on to the next patient, and the next. The trouble was..." She finished the burger and licked her fingers. "...he wasn't hurrying because he wanted to help as many people as possible. He was hurrying to make more money."

"Did you ever hear or observe anything which suggested he had money problems?"

"Other than visits from Janet?" He nodded. "Betty would know. Never tell, though. She's a nineteenth century soul. The only Asian Victorian you'll ever meet. Just what I said. Trying to see as many patients as possible."

"And people who hurry make mistakes."

Her frank blue eyes met his. "You didn't hear that from me." She hesitated. "I have a job I like. You've met Ken Bailey, right? So I probably don't have to tell you, if Ken Bailey thinks I've said anything detrimental to the practice, that's it for me."

"And talking honestly about Stephen Pleasant is detrimental to the practice?" She nodded. "But you're here, talking to me. Really talking, not just giving me the party line."

"I'm a nurse, okay? My job is helping sick people get well. It's about healing. I don't believe in killing people, even disagreeable ones, to solve problems."

"So maybe there were some patients who got careless treatment from Dr. Pleasant, and maybe they were mad about it, but you aren't going to tell me, is that it?"

"That's it." Her bright warmth faded. "I thought he was killed by a prostitute, someone trying to rob him. You don't really think it could have been a patient?"

Cops ask questions. They don't answer them. "At this stage, I have to look at everything," he said. "What if it was a patient or a patient's relative? If you won't help, how would I find them?"

"Patient records?" She shrugged. "But for that you'd need an oncologist and a radiologist, wouldn't you? You could see who's complained to the hospital, or written to the practice, complaining, couldn't you? Talk to Martha McFarland. What about the Board of Registration in Medicine?"

"A man's been killed," he said, "leaving a wife and a tiny baby who'll never know his father. If you know anything that might help catch the killer, you should tell me."

She shifted uncomfortably on her chair. "Why me? Why not ask his wife? His partners? His friends? They knew him better than I did."

"Party line," he said.

Chris Perlin looked miserable. "I don't know. Let me think about this, okay? I'm no coward but I've got a living to make. Rent to pay. You know how it is."

He did. Although everyone supposedly had an obligation, and an interest, in promoting justice, he often talked to witnesses who walked a fine line between their loyalties. Like Alana Black. She knew far more than she'd told him, but she was trying to balance her loyalty to him with the necessity to get along on the street. For that matter, Ted Shaw and Ken Bailey obviously knew more than they were saying, yet felt no obligation to cooperate. The cop's lot. As though they'd said, you want to be a detective, son? Fine, we'll put out one eye and tie your hands behind your back. Now go serve and protect.

"Detective?"

He looked at her, startled, something in her tone making him wary. It wasn't like him to drift off like this. Was he getting too old to run on minimal sleep?

"I remember you," she said. "Couple years ago. Talk about people who got mad at him. I thought you were going to tear him apart. You probably would have if your mother... it was your mother, wasn't it? A frail, sweet-faced lady with tremendous dignity, hauling on your arm and trying to get you out while you're yelling, 'A year! A whole goddamned year! You let her go a year without treatment because you misread your own goddamned X-ray!'"

She pushed her plate of fries toward him and poured a pool of ketchup. "Help yourself. I'll never eat all these. If they knew, would they still let you work on the case?"

He turned away from her to watch the snow. This was getting way too personal. "I told them. They said it was fine. I only met him that once. Hell," he said, trying to diffuse it, "if I didn't work cases where I'd met people, I couldn't work in this town."

"Met? Is that what you told them?" She changed the subject. "It's pretty, isn't it, the snow? I don't mind it when it comes down all soft and fluffy like this. I just don't like ice." When he didn't respond, she said, "In case you're worrying, I won't tell."

"Why?"

"Because I think we share an old-fashioned notion of right and wrong. Even when the system doesn't work very well."

"Sometimes I wonder," he said.

"Me, too. I've wanted to turn off patients with no quality of life, whose families were keeping them alive when they were in agony and wanted to die. I've wanted to take a scalpel to the father of a severely abused child who'll spend life as a vegetable because Daddy lost his temper, but I always come back to the same thing—that I'm not qualified to play God. If we all decide we've got that power, everything falls apart."

She reached across the table and took his hand. He didn't pull away. They sat, oblivious to the noise and people around them, watching the snow fall. Finally, he said, "I've got to go. Got more people to see. You'll think about what we discussed?"

"I will."

"Thank you," he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand.

"For what?"

Burgess smiled. "Being."

Chapter 14