Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (18 page)

I said gently, "And when was that, Mr. Doleman?"

"Started a year ago, a year ago this month. They
took her to the hospital, then she'd be home, then in again. The MTA
and the folks at her job, they took care of most of the bills. The
doctors said there wasn't anything to be done. But they was wrong!"

Doleman seemed to come back to life, fill himself
with a past energy. "Heidi was a strong girl. She'd survived
before, in Germany, when everybody around her was dying. Strong and
brave. She could have beaten it, weren't for her."

The way Doleman pronounced the last word, there was
no question who he meant.

"She wrote this!" He stabbed the book with
his index finger so hard I was afraid he'd jammed the knuckle. "This
piece of deviltry. Of despair. Don't fight, she says in here. Don't
resist the Reaper. And don't just give in. Help him along. Take your
own life because it belongs to you, not to anybody else, like your
family who loves you and depends on you. Oh, no. It's okay to be
selfish, see? It's okay to give up."

"Your daughter read the professor's book."

"She did. I didn't know a thing about it. Can
you believe that? Me, her own father, Heidi never told me. Just let
on how she was a burden, how it was hard for her to do things
anymore. But not a word, not one word about suiciding herself."

I thought back to Beth. The conversations we had, the
idea just below the surface. I had the feeling Heidi told her father
as best she could, but that he just hadn't been listening.

"One morning in August I got up, didn't smell
the coffee. Heidi always brewed the coffee, strong enough to knock
you over. Well, I got up that day and didn't smell it. Didn't know
what was wrong at first, because it was something that wasn't there
instead of something that shouldn't have been there, like a noise.
Then I realized I couldn't hear her either. I went to her door,
knocked like I always did since she was old enough to . . . old
enough anyway, and I didn't hear her and I knocked louder. Still
nothing, so I opened it. And there she was, in her bed, covers up
over a nightgown I never saw before. Her hands were folded on top of
her chest, and her mouth was open a little, nothing coming out. I
touched . . ."

Doleman's Adam's apple rode hard at his collar. "I
touched her hands and I knew . . . knew she was gone. Then I saw the
little pill thing next to her, vial or whatever you call it, clear so
you could tell it was empty. Sleeping pills. And the book. The
goddamn book with her note sticking out of it. The note said, 'Papa,
please forgive me. Please read this and maybe you'll understand. I'm
sure I'm going to be with Mama, and we'll look after you always.
Heidi.' "

I changed positions in my chair, Marpessa making a
clucking noise behind me.

Doleman fixed me with his eyes. "Well, mister, I
started reading this book. Chapter a night, every night. Still read
it. Still trying to figure out what the devil's bitch could have said
to make a fine girl like Heidi turn her back on her family and take
her life like that. But I can't. And that bitch can't either. Never
answered my letters, never even answered my question at the library
the other night."

"How old was Heidi when she died?"

"How old?"

"Yes."

"Just forty-eight."

"Mr. Doleman, I'm sorry."

"Sorry'? Don't be sorry. I've gotten even."

I felt a little queasy. "Even?"

"You betcha. Marpessa there. I've got me
somebody now that bitch can't take away. " Doleman stabbed the
book again. "Marpessa can talk but she can't read, see? Great
company, and better than a watchdog at knowing when there are people
coming round. Why, I was to say the magic word, she'd fly in your
face right now, rip your eyes out."

I was trying not to take that seriously when he said,
"Macaws, they live to be eighty, a hundred years old.
Marpessa'll be here long after I'm gone, mister." His voice
dropped to a whisper. "I'll never have another thing in this
house that I'll outlive, see?"

I thanked Doleman for his time and moved slowly to
the inner door. As I opened it, Marpessa looked at me sideways and
squawked, "Bye — bye."
 

=15=

I DROVE BACK INT0 DOWNTOWN AND FOUND A PARKING SPACE
on Charles near Cambridge Street. Stopping in a bookstore, I bought
the latest Robert Randisi paperback to see how private investigators
in the Big Apple were doing. A couple of chapters went down over
lunch at the Sevens, a great neighborhood bar that's still what the
Bull & Finch used to be before the latter went television as
Cheers. I tried to wash the taste of Doleman's bitterness from my
mouth with a pub sandwich and draft ale, but they didn't help much.

Leaving my car where it was, I walked to
Massachusetts General Hospital. Inside the imposing white granite
facade, an information volunteer with the demeanor of a kindergarten
teacher explained the color — coded lines on the floors of the
corridors. Following the path for Internal Medicine, I eventually
reached Paul Eisenberg's office. Or at least the suite that included
his office. The waiting area was crowded, some people obviously in
serious if not emergent difficulty even just sitting, others at
attention, as if to advertise that they were only companions, not
sick themselves.

I went to the reception counter, a harried Hispanic
woman looking up from one of twenty or so files teetering next to her
elbow.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Eisenberg, please."

"You have your hospital card?"

"No, but — "

"You need to go around the corner, with your
Blue Cross/Blue Shield, and get a hospital card. Then come back."

"I'm not a patient. I'm just here to see Dr.
Eisenberg."

"Oh." She was confused, as though she
couldn't process what I'd said. "Uh, what's your name?"

"Cuddy. John Cuddy. I have an appointment."

That she could process. "Have a seat. The doctor
will see you as soon as possible."

I was glad I'd brought a
book.

* * *

"Mr. Curry, is it?"

"Cuddy, Doctor. John Cuddy."

Eisenberg looked at me over the half-glasses. "What
seems to be the problem?"

I showed him my ID. Up close, his immaculate hands
were steady. The stage fright he'd exhibited at the debate seemed
gone.

Eisenberg closed the holder and handed it back to me.
"It's hospital policy not to discuss cases without our lawyers
present."

"I'm not here about one of your cases. I'm
working for Maisy Andrus on a problem she has."

"What problem is that?"

"She's been receiving threats."

Eisenberg sighed, rolling his shoulders like a weary
starter in the eighth inning. "Mr. Cuddy, I really don't see how
I can help with that, and I have an arkful of patients out there that
I might be able to help. So, if you'll excuse me."

I held out the copies of the threats. "These are
what she's been getting. It won't take long to read them."

Eisenberg sighed again, but accepted the pages. After
the first one, the skin on his forehead wrinkled, flexing the bald
scalp above it.

When he got to the fourth one, I said, "That was
in one of the books she was given to sign at Plato's after the
debate."

"I'm sorry. I can see how she'd be . . . how
anybody would be upset over this kind of thing. I noticed there was
something wrong at the signing." Eisenberg changed tone. "But
I still don't see where I'd come in."

"You're pretty well known for your stands on
patients' rights. I thought you might know of somebody who could have
written these."

"Hmmm." He brought the right hand up,
combing his beard with the fingers. "I think you'd be better off
with a psychiatrist."

"I'm not looking for a profile, Doctor. I'd like
names, if you have them."

"Toward what end?"

"Toward the end of finding out who's sending
these."

Eisenberg combed some more. "Mr. Cuddy, I don't
know anyone who would do something like this."

"Has anybody approached you about their
opposition to what Andrus is doing?"

He hesitated. "No personal approaches, outside
of professional circles, of course, but none of them could possibly
be involved in this."

"How about letters or phone calls?"

"I do get correspondence from time to time. From
nonprofessionals, I mean. Mainly older persons who don't have much .
. . who have the time to read books and articles like mine. The
closer we get to the end, Mr. Cuddy, the more the end intrigues us."

"The name Louis Doleman sound familiar?"

"The man at the debate. Who asked the question
about his daughter, you mean?"

"Right."

"Well, yes. At the time it did sound familiar,
but I was too . . .it wasn't until I was home that I remembered who
he was. He'd written me, even made a small splash in the newspapers
after his daughter committed suicide. Tragic situation. I believe she
was a spinster who cared for him."

"You wouldn't by any chance have a copy of his
letter?"

"A copy? No, all I would have is the original.
But that sort of thing would just go into the daily file."

"Daily file?"

"Yes. My daily correspondence file for the day
it was received. We date and time-stamp each communication. It's
simply easier for the lawyers to be able to read everything that
arrives on a given day rather than rely on our . . . uncertain filing
system for the case folders themselves."

"By 'the lawyers,' you mean for malpractice?"

"Yes. It's eating us up, you know. The insurance
rates are soaring, and the state won't let us balance-bill the
patients to keep up with it. On top of that, most of us are scared
blind of AIDS and can't even test for it without the patient's
permission. Crazy."

"Was there any malpractice involved with
Doleman's daughter?"

Eisenberg's forehead wrinkled again. "What?"

"Doleman's daughter died of leukemia. Was there
any malpractice'?"

"What difference would that make?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I don't know either, Mr. Cuddy. I don't
even recall where she was treated."

I was starting to tick Eisenberg off, and I didn't
want to do that.

"Anybody else?"

"Anybody else?"

"Besides Doleman, anybody else contact you about
Andrus and mercy-killing?"

"Oh. No, but you have to understand, I wouldn't
be thinking of it that way."

"If mercy-killing is the wrong phrase, I — "

"No, no. What I mean is, I wouldn't get a letter
and say to myself, 'Aha, another Andrus-hater.' My mind wouldn't have
been alert to that kind of thing."

"The name Steven O'Brien mean anything to you?"

Eisenberg laughed. "Poor man. He lives in Rhode
Island, comes up to lectures. I'm afraid he's a bit too . . .
concentrated in his view."

"Which is'?"

"The right to life, but the sort of person who
makes debates like the other night a debacle. He talked to me after a
presentation I made at one of the local colleges. Nearly ranting,
though in a strange way."

"Strange how?"

"Well, he has this little voice, and he speaks
very quietly. But he still gives the impression of fanaticism. You'd
have to see him to know what I mean."

"You said before that nobody had approached
you."

"Approached me?"

"About Maisy Andrus."

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. I must have misunderstood
your question.

I meant to say that the only people who've approached
me about her were professional colleagues, in the circle of
physicians or professors of philosophy who are interested in the area
of euthanasia and patients' rights. We would talk about many things,
Maisy and her writings included. But not in any . . . vindictive
way."

"And O'Brien?"

"He may be aware of Maisy's works. In fact, I
can't imagine he isn't. But I don't recall his ever saying her name,
and that's why I suppose I didn't think of Steven as approaching me
until you mentioned him by name."

Steven. "Any other characters like O'Brien,
floating around?"

"Probably. I'm sure I don't know them all."

"How about Gunther Yary?"

"Never heard of him."

"At the debate, he was the skinhead who incited
the riot."

Eisenberg didn't laugh this time. "I've read
about the skinheads, Mr. Cuddy. Have you?"

"Not extensively."

"They're neo-Nazis. Oh, they come on like
states' righters without southern accents, but you heard the words he
used for us. 'Nigger,' 'kike.' People like that — like Yary, you
say his name is?"