Harvest Page 26

  “Did he make it?”

  “No. We ended up losing him.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m sorry.” She shut the closet door. “I’m kind of tired. I think I’ll go up and take a bath.”

  “Abby?”

  She paused and looked at him. They were separated by the width of the living room. But the gulf between them seemed miles wider.

  “What’s happened to you?” he asked “What’s wrong?”

  “You know what’s wrong. I’m worried about my job.”

  “I’m talking about us. Something’s wrong with us.” She didn’t say anything.

  “I hardly see you anymore. You’re at Vivian’s more than you are here. When you are home, you act like you’re somewhere else.”

  “I’m preoccupied, that’s all. Can’t you understand why?”

  He sank back, suddenly looking very tired. “I have to know, Abby. Are you seeing someone else?”

  She stared at him. Of all the things Mark might say to her, this was the last thing she’d expected. She almost felt like laughing at the trivial nature of his suspicions. If only it were that simple. If only our problems were the same as every other couple’s.

  “There’s no one else,” she said. “Believe me.”

  “Then why aren’t you talking to me anymore?”

  “I’m talking to you now.”

  “This isn’t talking! This is me trying to get the old Abby back. Somewhere along the way I’ve lost her. I’ve lost you.” He shook his head and looked away. “I just want you back again.”

  She went to the couch and sat down beside him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel connected, if only distantly.

  “Talk to me, Abby. Please.” He looked at her, and suddenly it was the old Mark she saw. The same face that had smiled at her across the operating table. The face she loved. “Please,” he repeated, softly. He took her hand and she didn’t pull away. She let him take her into his arms. But even there, where she’d once felt safe, she could not relax. She lay stiff and uneasy against his chest.

  “Tell me,” he said. “What’s wrong between us?”

  She closed her eyes against the sting of fresh tears. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said.

  She felt his arms go very still around her. Without even looking at his face, she knew that he could tell she was, once again, lying.

  At seven-thirty the next morning, Abby pulled into her parking space at Bayside Hospital.

  She sat in her car for a moment, eyeing the wet pavement, the steady drizzle. Only mid-October, she thought, and already this dreary foretaste of winter. She had not slept well last night. In fact, she could not remember the last good night’s sleep she’d had. How long could a person hold up without sleep? How long before fatigue led to psychosis? Glancing in the rearview mirror, she scarcely recognized the haggard stranger staring back at her. In two weeks it seemed she had aged ten years. At this rate she’d be hitting menopause by November.

  A flash of maroon in the mirror caught her eye.

  She snapped her head around just in time to see a van retreating behind the next aisle of cars. She waited for another glimpse of it. It didn’t reappear.

  Quickly she stepped outside and began to walk toward the hospital. The weight of her briefcase felt like an anchor weighing her down. Off to her right, a car engine suddenly roared to life. She whirled, expecting to see the van, but it was a station wagon pulling out of a space.

  Her heart was slamming against her chest. It didn’t calm down until she was inside the building. She took the stairs down to the basement and walked into Medical Records. This would be her final visit; she was down to the last four names on the list.

  She lay the request slip on the counter and said, “Excuse me, may I have these charts please?”

  The clerk turned to face her. Perhaps Abby was only imagining it, but the woman seemed to freeze momentarily. They had dealt with each other before, and the clerk usually seemed friendly enough. Today she wasn’t even smiling.

  “I need these four charts,” said Abby.

  The clerk looked at the request slip. “I’m sorry, Dr. DiMatteo. I can’t get these files for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re not available.”

  “But you haven’t even checked.”

  “I’ve been told not to release any more files to you. It’s Dr. Wettig’s orders. He said if you came in, we’re to refer you to his office immediately.”

  Abby felt the blood drain from her face. She said nothing.

  “He said he never authorized any chart search.” The clerk’s tone of voice was plainly accusatory. You lied to us, Dr. DiMatteo.

  Abby had no answer. It seemed to her the room had suddenly fallen silent. She turned and saw that three other doctors were in the room, and they were all watching her.

  She walked out of Medical Records.

  Her first impulse was to leave the building. To avoid the inevitable confrontation with Wettig and just drive away. To keep driving until this was a thousand miles behind her. She wondered how long it would take to reach Florida and the beach and palm trees. She’d never been to Florida. She’d never done so many things other people had done. She could do them all now if she’d just walk out of this goddamn hospital, climb in her car, and say: Fuck it. You win. You all win.

  But she didn’t walk out of the building. She stepped into the basement elevator and punched Two.

  On that short ride to the administrative floor, several things became instantly clear to her. The first was that she was too stubborn or too stupid to run. The second was that a beach was not really what she wanted. What she wanted was her dream back.

  She got out of the elevator and walked up the carpeted hall. The residency office was around the corner, past Jeremiah Parr’s suite. As she walked past Parr’s secretary, she saw the woman sit up sharply and reach for the phone.

  Abby turned the corner and walked into the residency office. There were two men standing by the secretary’s desk, neither of whom Abby had ever seen before. The secretary looked up at Abby with that same stunned expression that had flashed across the face of Parr’s secretary, and blurted: “Oh! Dr. DiMatteo—”

  “I need to see Dr. Wettig,” said Abby.

  The two men turned to look at her. In the next instant, Abby was startled by a flash of light. She flinched away as the light went off again and again. A camera flashbulb.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Doctor, would you care to comment on the death of Mary Allen?” one of the men said.

  “What?”

  “She was your patient, wasn’t she?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Gary Starke, Boston Herald. Is it true you’re an advocate of euthanasia? We know you’ve made statements to that effect.”

  “I never said anything of the—”

  “Why were you relieved of your ward duties?”

  Abby took a step back. “Get away from me. I’m not talking to you.”

  “Dr. DiMatteo—”

  Abby turned to flee the office. She almost collided with Jeremiah Parr, who’d just walked in the door.

  “I want you reporters out of my hospital now,” Parr snapped. Then he turned to Abby. “Doctor, come with me.”

  Abby followed Parr out of the room. They walked swiftly down the hall and into his office. He shut the door and turned to look at her.

  “The Herald started calling half an hour ago,” he said. “Then the Globe called, followed by about half a dozen other newspapers. It hasn’t let up since.”

  “Did Brenda Hainey tell them?”

  “I don’t think it was her. They seemed to know about the morphine. And the vial in your locker. Things she didn’t know.”

  She shook her head. “How?”

  “Somehow it leaked out.” Parr sank into the chair behind his desk. “This is going to kill us. A criminal investigation. Police swarming up and down the halls.”

  The p
olice. Of course. By now it’s leaked out to them as well.

  Abby stared at Parr. Her throat felt too parched to produce a single word. She wondered if he was the source of the leak, then decided it was unlikely. This scandal would hurt him, too.

  There was a sharp rap on the door, and Dr. Wettig walked in. “What the hell do I do about those reporters?” he said.

  “You’ll have to prepare a statement, General. Susan Casado’s on her way over. She’ll help you with the wording. Until then, no one talks to anyone.”

  Wettig gave a curt nod. Then his gaze focused on Abby. “May I see your briefcase, Dr. DiMatteo?”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. You had no authority to search those patient records. They are private and confidential. I’m ordering you to turn over all the notes you took.”

  She did nothing. Said nothing.

  “I hardly think an additional charge of theft is going to help your case.”

  “Theft?”

  “Any information you gleaned from that illegal chart search was stolen. Give me the briefcase. Give it to me.”

  Wordlessly she handed it to him. She watched him open it. Watched him shuffle through the papers and remove her notes. She could do nothing except hang her head in defeat. Once again they had beaten her. They had made the preemptive strike, and she hadn’t been prepared. She should have known better. She should have stashed the notes before coming up here. But she’d been too focused on what she would say, how she would explain herself to Wettig.

  He shut the briefcase and handed it back to her. “Is that everything?” he asked.

  She could only nod.

  Wettig regarded her for a moment in silence. Then he shook his head. “You would have made a fine surgeon, DiMatteo. But I think it’s time to recognize the fact you need help. I’m recommending you seek psychiatric evaluation. And I’m releasing you from the residency program, effective today.” To her surprise, she heard a note of genuine regret in his voice when he added, quietly: “I’m sorry.”

  18

  Detective Lundquist was a handsome blond, the ideal Teutonic specimen. He had interviewed Abby for two hours now, asking his questions while pacing around the cramped interview room. If it was a tactic designed to make her feel threatened, then it was working. In the small Maine town where Abby grew up, cops were the guys who waved at you from their cars, who walked cheerfully around town with keys clinking on their belts, and who handed out citizenship awards at high school graduations. They were not people you were supposed to be afraid of.

  Abby was afraid of Lundquist. She’d been afraid of him from the moment he’d walked into the room and set a tape recorder on the table. She’d been even more afraid when he’d pulled out a card from his suit pocket and read her her rights. She was the one who’d walked into the police station of her own volition. She had asked to speak to Detective Katzka. Instead they had sent in Lundquist, and he had questioned her with the barely restrained aggression of an arresting officer.

  The door opened, and at last Bernard Katzka walked into the room. To finally see someone she knew should have been a relief to Abby, but Katzka’s impassive face offered no reassurance whatsoever. He stood across the table from her, regarding her with a weary expression.

  “I understand you haven’t called an attorney,” he said. “Do you wish to call one now?”

  “Am I under arrest?” she asked.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then I’m free to go at any time?”

  He paused and looked at Lundquist, who shrugged. “This is only a preliminary investigation.”

  “Do you think I need an attorney, Detective?”

  Again Katzka hesitated. “That’s really your decision, Dr. DiMatteo.”

  “Look, I walked in here on my own. I did it because I wanted to talk to you. To tell you what happened. I’ve willingly answered all this man’s questions. If you’re putting me under arrest, then yes, I’ll call an attorney. But I want to make it clear from the start that it’s not because I’ve done anything wrong.” She looked Katzka in the eye. “So I guess my answer is, I don’t need an attorney.”

  Again Lundquist and Katzka exchanged glances, their meaning unclear to her. Then Lundquist said, “She’s all yours, Slug,” and he moved off into a corner.

  Katzka sat down at the table.

  “I suppose you’re going to ask all the same questions he did,” said Abby.

  “I missed the beginning. But I think I’ve already heard most of your answers.”

  He nodded at the mirror in the far wall. It was a viewing window, she realized. He’d been listening to the session with Lundquist. She wondered how many others were standing behind that glass, watching her. It made her feel exposed. Violated. She shifted her chair, turning her face away from the mirror, and found she was now gazing directly at Katzka.

  “So what are you going to ask me?”

  “You said you think someone is setting you up. Can you tell us who?”

  “I thought it was Victor Voss. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Do you have other enemies?”

  “Obviously I do.”

  “Someone who dislikes you enough to murder your patient? Just to set you up?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t murder. That morphine level was never confirmed.”

  “It has been. Mrs. Allen was exhumed a few days ago, at the request of Brenda Hainey. The medical examiner ran the quantitative test this morning.”

  Abby absorbed his information in silence. She could hear the tape recorder, still whirring. She sank back in her chair. There was no question now. Mrs. Allen had died of an OD.

  “A few days ago, Dr. DiMatteo, you told me you were being followed by a purple van.”

  “Maroon,” she whispered. “It was a maroon van. I saw it again, today.”

  “Did you get a license number?”

  “It was never close enough.”

  “Let me see if I understand this correctly. Someone administers a morphine overdose to your patient, Mrs. Allen. Then he—or she—plants a vial of morphine in your locker. And now you’re being followed around town by a van. And you think these incidents were all engineered by Victor Voss?”

  “That’s what I thought. But maybe it’s someone else.”

  Katzka sat back and regarded her. His look of weariness had spread to his shoulders, which were now slumped forward.

  “Tell us about the transplants again.”

  “I’ve already told you everything.”

  “I’m not entirely clear how it’s connected to this case.”

  She took a deep breath. She’d gone over this already with Lundquist, had told him the whole story of Josh O’Day and the suspicious circumstances of Nina Voss’s transplant. Judging by Lundquist’s disinterested response, it had been a waste of time. Now she was expected to repeat the story, and it would be a waste of more time. Defeated, she closed her eyes. “I’d like a drink of water.”

  Lundquist left the room. While he was gone, neither she nor Katzka said a word. She just sat with her eyes closed, wishing it were all over. But it would never be over. She would be in this room for eternity, answering the same questions forever. Maybe she should have called an attorney after all. Maybe she should just walk out. Katzka had told her she was not under arrest. Not yet.

  Lundquist returned with a paper cup of water. She drank it down in a few gulps and set the empty cup on the table.

  “What about the heart transplants, Doctor?” prodded Katzka.

  She sighed. “I think that’s how Aaron got his three million dollars. By finding donor hearts for rich recipients who didn’t want to wait their turn on the list.”

  “The list?”

  She nodded. “In this country alone, we have over five thousand people who need heart transplants. A lot of them are going to die because there’s a shortage of donor hearts. Donors have to be young and in previously good health— which means the vast majority of donors are trauma victims with brain death. A
nd there aren’t enough of those to go around.”

  “So who decides which patient gets a heart?”

  “There’s a computerized registry. Our regional system is run by New England Organ Bank. They’re absolutely democratic. You’re prioritized according to your condition. Not your wealth. Which means if you’re way down the list, you have a long wait. Now let’s say you’re rich, and you’re worried you’ll die before they find you a heart. Obviously, you’ll be tempted to go outside the system to get an organ.”

  “Can it be done?”

  “It would have to involve a shadow matchmaking service. A way to keep potential donors out of the system and funnel their hearts directly to wealthy patients. Or there’s even a worse possibility.”

  “Which is?”

  “They’re generating new donors.”

  “You mean killing people?” said Lundquist. “Then where are all the dead bodies? The missing persons reports?”

  “I didn’t say that’s what’s happening. I’m just telling you how it could be done.” She paused. “I think Aaron Levi was part of it. That might explain his three million dollars.”

  Katzka’s expression had scarcely changed. His impassivity was beginning to irritate her.

  She said, more animated now: “Don’t you see? It makes sense to me now, why those lawsuits against me were dropped. They probably hoped I’d stop asking questions. But I didn’t stop. I just kept asking more and more. And now they have to discredit me, because I can blow the whistle on them. I could ruin everything.”

  “So why don’t they just kill you?” It was Lundquist asking the question in a plainly skeptical tone of voice.

  She paused. “I don’t know. Maybe they don’t think I know enough yet. Or they’re afraid of how it’d look. So soon after Aaron’s death.”

  “This is very creative,” said Lundquist, and he laughed.

  Katzka lifted his hand in a terse gesture to Lundquist to shut up. “Dr. DiMatteo,” he said, “I’ll be honest with you. This is not coming across as a likely scenario.”

  “It’s the only one I can think of.”

  “Can I offer one?” said Lundquist. “One that makes perfect sense?” He stepped toward the table, his gaze on Abby. “Your patient Mary Allen was suffering. Maybe she asked you to help her over the edge. Maybe you thought it was the humane thing to do. And it was humane. Something any caring physician would consider doing. So you slipped her an extra dose of morphine. Problem is, one of the nurses saw you do it. And she sends an anonymous note to Mary Allen’s niece. Suddenly you’re in trouble, and all because you were trying to be humane. Now you’re looking at charges of homicide. Prison time. It’s all getting pretty scary, isn’t it? So you cobble together a conspiracy theory. One that can’t be proved—or disproved. Doesn’t that make more sense, Doctor? It makes more sense to me.”