Stress Test (19 page)

She straightened and handed Matt a chart. “Dr. Newman, I try not to pay attention to gossip. But I’ve worked with you for almost a year, and I don’t think you could be guilty of murder. Frankly, when I heard what they were saying, I was shocked.”

“Thanks.” Matt opened the chart and scanned the progress notes. He kept his head down as he said, “I appreciate your saying that. And, if it makes any difference, I’m totally innocent of all those charges.”

“Well, I’ll be praying for you.” A buzzer sent Candace hurrying off to answer.

Matt tucked the chart under his arm and headed for ICU room 6, where his patient—now Lonnie’s patient, he guessed—was located. The blinds were open, and the huge glass picture window gave him a clear view inside. A patient lay on the bed, an endotracheal tube in his throat connected to a respirator that was chuffing at a rate Matt guessed to be about twelve breaths per minute. In addition to two IVs, a tube led from the patient’s chest to a drainage setup. A monitor scrolled numbers and patterns across a screen, beeping while displaying information that was incomprehensible to a layperson but critical to medical professionals.

Matt was about to enter when he saw the woman sitting at the bedside, still as a wax figure. Stray strands escaped here and there from her otherwise perfectly coiffed ash-blond hair. She wore a simple navy dress, accented by a single strand of pearls. Her right hand rested on the patient’s arm, her left lay in her lap, squeezing a wad of tissue and occasionally using it to dab her eyes.

“Excuse me,” Matt said.

The woman rose from her chair, startled. Matt thought he had never seen such sorrow on a face. She blinked back a tear. “Shall I leave?”

Matt had changed into scrubs for his stint in the ER, covering them with a white coat, so there was really no need to explain his presence. Nevertheless, for some reason he felt the need to do exactly that. “No, please stay. I’m Dr. Matt Newman. I’m the doctor who saw Mr. . . .” Matt sneaked a glance at the chart. “I saw Mr. Penland in the emergency room yesterday. I wanted to look in on him, see that he’s okay.”

“You’re the doctor who saved his life,” she said. Her tone was as flat as though she were ordering a grilled cheese sandwich.

“I just did what an emergency room physician does,” Matt said.
“I diagnosed the problem, then I treated it until I could turn him over to the specialist.”

The woman held out her hand. “I’m Roland’s mother, Abby Penland. And Dr. Witt told me your quick action saved Roland’s life. So thank you.”

Being thanked for doing his job always felt wrong to Matt. He murmured, “You’re welcome,” then busied himself with the read-outs from the monitor until Mrs. Penland took her seat once more.

Lonnie Witt’s notes indicated he’d done a thoracotomy—entering Penland’s chest—necessitating the chest tube drainage. He’d opened the sac surrounding the heart and sutured a small laceration of the heart muscle. Matt had never done this procedure, but was familiar enough with it to know that Mr. Penland had a period of convalescence ahead of him. On the other hand, without Matt’s intervention, the woman sitting at the bedside would be planning a funeral instead of holding her son’s hand.

Matt glanced at the clock. “I need to go now. I’m due on duty in the emergency room soon.” He started to leave, then turned back. “It was nice meeting you. I hope your son continues to do well.”

She rose and took Matt’s extended hand in both her own. He noticed that she wore what looked like a platinum engagement and wedding ring set featuring a large emerald-cut diamond, with smaller stones on either side. Although Matt hadn’t gone so far as to buy a ring for Jennifer, he’d done some looking and was certain he’d just seen a five-carat diamond.

“Thank you for coming by. And good luck.”

Matt started to respond but found that he had nothing to say. Did she mean “good luck” with the patients he was about to see? Or was his predicament such common knowledge that her “good luck” referred to his battle to prove his innocence of murder charges?

As the door closed behind Matt, he decided that looking for motives behind what people said to him was just another unpleasant by-product of the mess he was in. He longed for it all to be over . . . one way or another.

Sandra Murray reached across her desk to still the buzz of the intercom. “Yes?”

“Dr. Newman just called. He’s on his way with that package you wanted.”

Package? What—? Oh, the pistol
. “Thanks, Elaine. When he gets here, send him right in.”

Sandra pulled Matt’s case file from the stack on her desk. It was near the top, the position it had occupied from the beginning. She’d been careful not to short-change her other clients, but Matt’s case had been foremost in her mind since that first encounter in his ICU room. That was natural, though, wasn’t it, given the charges he faced? And besides that . . . She shook her head and wondered why the man attracted her so.

She’d given up on talking with Charlie Greaver about Matt’s case. His standard answer had become, “Talk to Frank Everett.” But talking to Frank was like arguing with a stone.

Sandra insisted that the case against her client was purely circumstantial. She repeated Matt’s contention that he was the victim, not the perpetrator in this situation. But Frank would only say that one missing piece of evidence was all that stood between Matt and a murder indictment.

What was this mysterious missing piece of evidence? Matt continued to deny any knowledge of such a thing. Was he being straight with her? He—

“Here you are.” Matt stood in the door, holding a small brown paper bag. He moved to her desk and deposited the bag there as casually as though he were delivering a half-dozen donuts. “One revolver, unloaded. Five unfired bullets and an empty cartridge case. I didn’t get any extra ammunition with it. Guess the guy I bought it from wasn’t running a special that week.”

Sandra parted the top of the bag just enough to confirm that the contents were as Matt described. “Did you by any chance—”

“There are no fingerprints on the gun. I even wiped down the bullets.” Matt sank into the visitor’s chair and crossed his legs. “And I’ve patched the bullet hole.”

“Good,” Sandra said. “I’m going to tell them that this came into my possession and I wanted to turn it over to them for disposal. To my knowledge it wasn’t used in the commission of a crime. Beyond that, I’ll claim lawyer-client privilege.”

“Won’t they infer that it came from me?”

“Let them infer all they want to. There’s no way they can tie this to you.” She frowned. “Is there anything else they might find in your home or car that could be used as evidence against you?”

“Absolutely not.” The response came rapidly, and was accompanied by such an earnest expression, Sandra was sure he was telling the truth.

“Got to head for work,” Matt said. “But I wanted to drop this by first. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

“Don’t worry,” Sandra said. “You are.”
At least, I hope you are.
Please, God, keep him safe
.

Detective Virgil Grimes left his unmarked car a block away from Matt’s house. As he moved along the sidewalk, he wondered when the city
would realize that a black Ford Crown Vic with plain steel wheels and basic hubcaps, red and blue strobes faintly visible through the grill, was as clearly a police car as a black-and-white with a light bar on top. But he was entitled to drive a city car, and beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Over the years, Grimes had developed the policeman’s walk, along with the “I don’t want any trouble out of you” stare that marked him as a cop as plainly as flipping open his badge wallet. It was too late to try to disguise it, but if any of the neighbors saw him approaching Newman’s house, he figured they wouldn’t think it unusual. The man was a suspect in a murder, so a policeman in the area would be as normal as an ice cream truck in a family neighborhood during the summer.

While he was there, Grimes decided he might as well see if he could find a nosy neighbor, some housewife or retired man who spent their day with eyes glued to their window. You never could tell what you might turn up that way. But first he had a little business to take care of.

Grimes rang the front doorbell, not expecting an answer. If Newman had stayed home from work, he’d ask him a dozen or so questions and leave. There’d be another time for what he had in mind today.

The bell went unanswered, so Grimes slid the key he’d liberated from the property room into the lock. At least, he tried to slide it in, but it wouldn’t go. He turned the key over and tried again. Still no luck. Maybe it fit the back door. He trudged around behind the house. Same thing.

So Newman had been smart enough to change the locks. If Grimes had a warrant in his pocket, that wouldn’t be a problem, but this visit was strictly unofficial. He pulled out a flat leather wallet containing a series of picks and metal strips, possession of which would earn him a nice vacation at state expense if he weren’t a policeman.
Using a talent he’d perfected after a lesson from one of his informants, Grimes had the back door open in less than a minute.

He closed the door behind him and stood silent as a statue, listening to the sounds of the house. Satisfied that he was alone, he moved swiftly up the stairs. Might as well start with the bedroom. That was the logical place.

Grimes had done his share of searches, most of them with a warrant, but one or two without benefit of legal sanction. He knew all the hiding places, knew them better than most criminals, he figured. Once he found the right place, it took him less than a minute to finish the job. He hurried down the stairs, and in another minute he was out the back door, having locked it with even more ease than when he’d entered.

He paused in the backyard and ran through what he’d done, looking for mistakes. Now was the time to correct them. But, no, the house was just as he’d found it—well, almost. And the change wouldn’t be evident to Newman or anyone else until Grimes wanted it to be.

FOURTEEN

“I’m going to take a break,” Matt said. “It looks like everything’s under control.”

Someone unfamiliar with an emergency room might have taken exception to Matt’s characterization, but in truth, things really were under control. Patients waited with varying degrees of tolerance for reports of lab work or X-rays. A nurse prepped the hand of a teenage boy for suture of a laceration as soon as the nerve block Matt had done took effect. And an orderly wheeled a woman in labor off to the delivery room, where her obstetrician waited. Things were busy, but they were under control.

In the break room, Matt pulled a Coke from the fridge, held it briefly to his forehead, then popped the tab and took several swallows. He opened his locker and checked the display on his cell phone. It still registered “One missed call” and “One new message.” He’d recognized Jennifer’s cell phone number when she phoned earlier, and chosen to ignore the call. Maybe he was angry about her earlier rejection of his pleas for help, her eventual refusal to even talk with
him. It might be that he wasn’t sure he wanted to try rekindling a romance that appeared to have flamed out. But whatever the reason, pure perversity or hesitation at what might follow, he hadn’t dialed her number—hadn’t even listened to her message.

“Dr. Newman, I think the boy in two is ready for you to suture his laceration.”

“Thanks,” Matt called to the nurse’s retreating back. He recognized how lucky he was to have Carol as the head nurse on this shift. A doctor might be important, but the nurses were what kept the ER running. For that matter, the same could be said of any unit in the hospital. Matt made a mental note to thank Carol and the rest of the staff.

He looked at his watch and decided he had time to listen to Jennifer’s message. He probably owed her that much. He had come to the end of the message and was about ready to hit the delete button when he heard Jennifer’s tentative addendum to her message. “I promise I’ll answer your call this time.”

He decided that if Jennifer was trying to shame him into returning her call, she was close to succeeding. More than anyone, Matt recognized what it cost her to leave that message. Of all the people he knew, Jennifer Ball was the least likely to admit she’d made a mistake. Shouldn’t he at least give her credit for trying?