When Secrets Die (14 page)

I took Man of War to Tundridge Road and found the clinic close to Jesse Clark Junior High, on the opposite side of the street. It was a red brick building, one story, very new, the parking lot freshly paved. The lot was full, with a large section reserved for staff. There were three spaces for doctors, and one of them was marked “Tundridge.” A navy Volvo was parked in his spot. So he was there.

I noticed a small gas station and food market next to the parking lot, so I drove over and bought a small disposable camera. I wasn't sure if I would use it, but I wanted to have it just in case.

The reception area was thinly carpeted, and very clean, and the girl behind the front desk wore a stiff white lab coat with her name, Janet, embroidered on the pocket in pink cursive.

She smiled at me from behind a sliding glass window and pointed to a white pad that listed names. One of those tie-down pens rested near the pad of paper, and a glass cylinder held lollipops of various flavors. I hesitated between cherry and grape and finally went with the cherry.

I glanced over my shoulder. The waiting room was crowded. Mothers, and some fathers, and a heaving mass of small children. Some of them sat in laps, some of them played with a set of blocks, some looked at books. One was rolling on the floor, and another was climbing to the top of a couch. The noise level was impressive.

“My name is Lena Padget, and I'd like to see Dr. Tundridge, if possible.”

The smile left Janet's face, and she glanced at the list of names.

I raised my voice. I wanted to make sure Janet could hear me, and if the parents in the waiting room overheard, I didn't mind.

“I'm not a patient—Janet, is it? I don't have an appointment. I'm here representing Emma Marsden. I'm a private detective, and she's my client. You do know who Emma Marsden is? Her child, Ned, two and a half, was Dr. Tundridge's patient. I'm sure you remember Ned. He died of liver failure.” I was aware of heads turning behind me, and I heard one woman hushing her child so she could hear. “If you'll recall, Dr. Tundridge accused Ms. Marsden of Munchausen by proxy—that's where a mother makes her own child ill—when Ms. Marsden objected to Dr. Tundridge keeping Ned's internal organs in the pathology lab you guys have down in the basement.”

Janet was on her feet, face very pink. “Would you please have a seat, Ms. Padget? I'll have someone out to help you in just one moment. Just sit down, and I'll be right back.”

I smiled. My pleasure.

I sat in the middle of a row of chairs, making myself available to talk.

The mother whose little girl was rolling under the chairs scooped her daughter up and sat down beside me.

“Excuse me for butting in, but I couldn't help but overhear what you said up there. Are you saying that Dr. Tundridge keeps children's organs in a lab down in the basement?”

I had the attention of every adult in the room.

“That's right. You can imagine how my client was very upset when she got a call from the clinic asking her to either come get them or pay a storage fee. She had no idea at all that the organs had been removed from her child's body. You can understand how she felt.”

A man and a woman scooped up their toddler and headed to the reception desk. The man crossed a name out on the list, and the three of them left the office.

Janet appeared in the doorway. “Ms. Padget, could you come with me?”

I stood up and followed her down the hall.

I went slowly, looking at the line of examining rooms, studying the faces of the staff as they walked by.

“This is Mr. French,” Janet said, and left me at the door of a small office where a large pear-shaped man sat behind a walnut desk. He stood up when he saw me. He wore a white lab coat, and like Janet, his name, Mr. French, was etched in pink thread.

“I'm Mr. French,” he said, shaking my hand. He was a big teddy bear of a man with rectangular glasses on the end of his nose and a lot of curly brown hair. “Now you just sit down right there.” He pointed to a leatherette armchair. “And you and I can have a talk.”

I sat.

“Oh, where are my manners. Do you want some coffee, or maybe some herbal tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

Mr. French did not seem the least bit hostile. This puzzled me.

“Now you, Miss Thing”—he shook a finger at me—“have been out in the waiting room causing trouble.”

I didn't deny it.

“So why don't you tell Mr. French exactly what it is that you want?”

Why did I feel like I was talking to Santa Claus?

“I want to see your lab,” I said.

“Oh, no, no, that would be off limits.”

“And I want to talk to Dr. Tundridge about Emma Marsden, and his real reasons for accusing her in the death of her son. His real, financial, genetic-material-patenting reasons.”

He tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. “Yes. Yes, that's a sad, sad case. Poor little Ned. We were all very upset when he died. He was one of the really sick ones. It tears me up, the whole thing. To hurt your own child—”

“Emma Marsden didn't hurt her child, and Dr. Tundridge didn't make that accusation until she objected to his practice of retaining the body parts.”

“Mrs. Marsden gave us permission.”

“No, she didn't. Not unless you count that ridiculous permission statement you have on your Web site.”

“It's perfectly legal, you know.”

“It's perfectly ridiculous, you know.”

Mr. French took a deep breath. “Personally, Lena, I agree with you. I'd like to see our permission forms get more explicit. I'd like things explained better. It's one of the things I'm working on with Dr. Tundridge as well as the other physicians in this practice. But for now, all I can tell you is that it is legal.”

“Dr. Tundridge has made these accusations before.”

“Dr. Tundridge is vigilant. Understand this, Lena. I've worked with him for many years. He is a truly dedicated researcher. Between you and Mr. French, his people skills could use a
little
work. He has that doctoritis thing—you know what I mean, don't you?”

I leaned back in my chair. I knew what he meant, I just couldn't believe he was admitting it.

He laughed deeply enough to make his belly shake. “Lena, I have been a nurse for twenty years—from back when men weren't nurses, you know? I've suffered a lot of nonsense from that old bugaboo doctoritis. And I don't like it, not at all, but it's like working with bees, my dear, you're going to get stung, that's just life.

“But doctoritis does not make Dr. Ted a bad man. No, no, it just makes him an arrogant one, and bless his little heart, how could he not be with the brainwashing he got in medical school, and, you didn't hear it from me, a mother that absolutely positively dotes?”

“Mr. French, I'd like to talk to Dr. Tundridge personally. Are you going to let me do that?”

“No, my dear, I'm not, because if I did, then I wouldn't be doing my job of running this clinic. I can't bother the doctors with harassment.”

“Perhaps you could give him a message for me then. Could you do that?”

“I could and maybe even would, depending on the message.”

“Tell Dr. Tundridge that Emma Marsden will be going to the newspapers with the story of what goes on down in the lab here in the Tundridge Clinic.”

“There's not a thing goes on here that isn't legal.”

“It may not play well in the court of public opinion.”

“Mr. French gets your drift.”

“Good. And also tell him that we know he sent the videotape to the police. Maybe he even hired someone to film it. Looking for dirt on Emma Marsden, the patient who had the guts to stand up to him.”

“That is absolutely not true.”

“Of course it's true. It had to come from this office. Who else knew anything about the details of the case? Nothing else makes any sense.”

“Prove it, my girl.” The phone rang on his desk and he picked it up. “Janet? They're here? Good, good, send them on back.” He stood up. “And speaking of the police.”

I heard voices in the hallway, a man and a woman. Two uniformed patrol officers stopped in the doorway. I recognized one of them.

“McFee? That you? Not guarding the warehouses anymore?”

“Hello, Lena.” McFee, a big guy with a square fighter's face, saluted. “You know Bonnie Maguire? Patrolwoman Maguire, Lena Padget.”

“Hello,” Bonnie Maguire said from the doorway. She had red hair, cut short and flipped up in the back, dark eyebrows, and the anxiety of a new hire.

“You know Detective Joel Mendez?” McFee asked her.

“No.”

“Well, anyway, Lena is his significant other.”

Mr. French tapped the top of his desk. “Excuse me, police people! I want this woman removed from the premises and arrested for trespassing.”

“What woman?” McFee asked.

“I think he means me, Chris.” I looked over at Mr. French. “You do mean me, right?”

“She's trespassing. Please handcuff her and lead her out.”

McFee frowned and turned to face Mr. French. “What do you mean, trespassing? I was walking down the hallway, and all I heard was a normal conversation between you. It even sounded friendly. It sounded friendly to you, didn't it, Bonnie?”

“Yes, Chris, I have to say it did.”

“Are you the party who called the police?” McFee asked.

Mr. French folded his arms. “I asked someone on my staff to make the call.”

“And what seems to be the problem?”

“I want this woman to leave.”

“Did you ask her to leave?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you just ask her?”

“She's clearly here to cause trouble.”

“If you could explain that to me, sir.”

Mr. French picked up the phone on his desk. “Yes, Janet, please come in, thank you.”

I crossed my legs. Janet didn't take long. She stood in the doorway, and McFee waved her in.

Mr. French lifted his chin. “Janet, would you—”

“Excuse me, sir,” McFee said. “Ma'am. This lady here in the chair. Did you speak with her?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked to see Dr. Tundridge. But she didn't have an appointment.”

“No appointment?” McFee said.

“No, sir.”

“And then what?”

“She told me she was representing a client named Emma Marsden, whose son used to be a patient here.”

“And did you ask her to leave?”

“No, I asked her to wait in the waiting room.”

“And what did she do?”

“She waited. She also talked to some of the parents in there.”

“I see. And then what?”

“Then I took her to Mr. French's office.”

McFee turned to Mr. French. “And you asked her to leave?”

“No.”

“You didn't ask her to leave?”

“He offered me coffee,” I said. McFee gave me a look.

“Did you offer her coffee?” McFee asked.

Mr. French nodded. “Of course I did. I wanted to keep things smooth until you came to arrest her.”

“Sir, we don't arrest people for going to a doctor's office without an appointment.”

“She was obviously here to cause trouble.”

“It doesn't look like she caused trouble to me. If you had asked her to leave, and she refused, then you might have a point. But you offered her coffee. Mr. French, I don't want to come across as a hard-ass, but the department doesn't like it when people file a false police report. You can get in a lot of trouble. The line of thinking is that even if you think of it as some kind of joke, like a prank, you know? Then officers like myself and Ms. Maguire are distracted answering prank calls, when we might be needed somewhere else. Who knows, someone could be injured or even killed because we didn't get there soon enough because we were here instead.”

“This was certainly not a prank.”

“Well, you know, trying to have someone arrested falsely, that's even worse.”

“Then I want a restraining order so she can't come back.”

“Sir, you have to go through the proper procedures for getting a restraining order, and you have to show cause.”

“At least make her leave, then.”

“You mean, escort her out?”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

“But that might embarrass her. And then she could sue the police department, and she could sue you, and she could win. And I don't think any of us want that.”

“But what if she won't leave?”

“I suggest you ask her to leave, and if she doesn't, you can call the police. Good day, sir. Lena. See you around.”

I waited till they were out of the room, then looked over at Janet and Mr. French.

“Is there something you wanted to say to me?”

Mr. French glared at me. “As a matter of fact—”

“It's okay,” I told him. “I'm going.”

I waited till I was back out in the parking lot to eat my cherry lollipop. I didn't want to be accused of stealing.

EMMA

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

That morning Emma was sick. Wally always came when Emma was sick. Good old Wally. The dog knew. No one else seemed to have figured it put.

She was very sick.

The attack had arrived like the ones before, except it came in the morning instead of the middle of the night. The pain usually came with no warning, waking her from a sound sleep.

The first thing she always did was check the clock. On the average, the attacks lasted three hours, give or take.

The pain hit like a sheath of red light between her breast bone and the edge of her right rib cage. Upper right quadrant, was how the WebMD article had put it. The pain was simple and cruel. No throb, no coming and going, no pressure that could be relieved by shifting position. Just pain, radiating through her; she could feel it all the way to her back. There was no possibility of comfort, but the best position involved sitting cross-legged, left shoulder against the bathroom wall, right arm wrapped around her midsection to support the muscles that ran beneath the area of pain.