Devil's Waltz (11 page)

“Fine.”

“In terms of a criminal history,” I said, “Munchausens generally present as model citizens — just like your carpet cleaner. And we already know about the first child’s death. It’s been written off as SIDS.”

He thought. “There’d be a coroner’s report on that, but if no one had any suspicions of foul play, that’s about it. I’ll see what I can do about getting hold of the paperwork. You might even be able to do it yourself — check hospital records. If you can be discreet.”

“Don’t know if I can. The hospital’s a different place now.”

“In what way?”

“Lots more security — kind of heavy-handed.”

“Well,” he said, “you can’t fault that. That part of town’s gotten real nasty.”

He got up, went to the fridge, found an orange and began peeling it over the sink. Frowning.

I said, “What is it?”

“I’m trying to frame some strategy on this. Seems to me the only way to solve something like this would be to catch the bad guy in the act. The kid gets sick at home?”

I nodded.

“So the only way to do it would be to surveil their house electronically. Hidden audio and video. Trying to record someone actually poisoning the baby.”

“The Colonel’s games,” I said.

That made him frown.

“Yeah, exactly the kind of stuff that prick would delight in… He moved, you know.”

“Where?”

“Washington, D.C. Where else? New enterprise for him. Corporation with one of those titles that tells you nothing about what it does. Ten to one he’s living off the government. I got a note and a business card in the mail a while back. Congrats for entering the informational age and some free software to do my taxes.”

“He knew what you were doing?”

“Evidently. Anyway, back to your baby-poisoner. Bugging her house. Unless you got a court order, anything you came up with would be inadmissible. But a court order means strong evidence, and all you’ve got are suspicions. Not to mention the fact that Grandpa’s a pooh-bah, and you’ve got to tread extra carefully.”

He finished peeling the orange, put it down, washed his hands, and began pulling apart the sections. “This one may be a heartbreaker — please don’t tell me how cute the kid is.”

“The kid’s adorable.”

“Thank you very much.”

I said, “There were a couple of cases in England, reported in one of the pediatrics journals. They videotaped mothers smothering babies, and all
they
had were suspicions.”

“They taped at home?”

“In the hospital.”

“Big difference. And for all I know, the law’s different in England…. Let me think on it, Alex. See if there’s anything creative we
can
do. In the meantime I’ll start playing with local records, NCIC, on the off chance that any of them has been naughty before, and we can build up
something
to get a warrant. Old Charlie’s taught me well — you should see me ride those data bases.”

“Don’t put
yourself
in jeopardy,” I said.

“Don’t worry. The preliminary searches are no more than what an officer does every time he pulls someone over for a traffic stop. If and when I dig deeper, I’ll be careful. Have the parents lived anyplace other than L.A.?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t know much about them, better start learning.”

“Yeah, you dig your trench; I’ll dig mine.” He hunched over the counter, thinking out loud: “They’re upper-crusties, which could mean private schools. Which is tough.”

“The mother might be a public school girl. She doesn’t come across as someone who was born to money.”

“Social climber?”

“No, just simple. He’s a college teacher. She might have been one of his students.”

“Okay,” he said, opening his note pad. “What else? Maybe military service for him, maybe officer’s training — another tough nut to crack. Charlie
has
managed to hack into some of the military files, but nothing fancy, just V.A. benefits, cross-referencing, that kind of stuff.”

“What do you guys do, play around with confidential data banks?”

“More like he plays, I watch. Where does the father teach?”

“West Valley Community College. Sociology.”

“What about mom? Any job?”

“No, she’s a full-time mom.”

“Takes her job seriously, huh. Okay, give me a name to work with.”

“Jones.”

He looked at me.

I nodded.

His laughter was deep and loud, almost drunken.

The next morning, I arrived at the hospital at 9:45. The doctors’ lot was nearly full and I had to drive up to the top level to find a space. A uniformed guard was leaning against a concrete abutment, half-concealed by shadows, smoking a cigarette. He kept his eyes on me as I got out of the Seville and didn’t stop looking until I’d snapped my new badge to my lapel.

The private ward was as quiet as it had been yesterday. A single nurse sat at the desk and the unit clerk read
McCall’s
.

I read Cassie’s chart. Stephanie had been by for morning rounds, reported Cassie symptom-free but decided to keep her in for at least another day. I went to 505W, knocked, and entered.

Cindy Jones and Vicki Bottomley were sitting on the sleeper couch. A deck of cards rested in Vicki’s lap. The two of them looked up.

Cindy smiled. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Vicki said, “Okay,” and stood.

Cassie’s bed had been cranked to an upright position. She sat playing with a Fisher-Price house. Other amusements, including a quorum of LuvBunnies, were scattered on the bedcover. A breakfast tray held a bowl of partially eaten oatmeal and a plastic cup of something red. Cartoon action flashed on the TV but the sound was off. Cassie was preoccupied with the house, arranging furniture and plastic figures. An I.V. pole was pushed into a corner.

I placed a new drawing on the bed. She glanced at it for a moment, then returned to her play.

Vicki was in rapid motion, handing the cards to Cindy, then clasping Cindy’s hand briefly between both of hers. Avoiding eye contact with me, she walked over to the bed, tousled Cassie’s head, and said, “See you, punkin.”

Cassie looked up for an instant. Vicki tousled her hair again and left.

Cindy stood. A pink blouse replaced yesterday’s plaid. Same jeans and sandals.

“Let’s see, what did Dr. Delaware draw for you today?” She picked up the drawing. Cassie reached out and took it from her.

Cindy put an arm around her shoulder. “An elephant! Dr. Delaware drew you a cute blue elephant!”

Cassie brought the paper closer. “Eh-fa.”

“Good, Cass, that’s great! Did you hear that, Dr. Delaware? Elephant?”

I nodded. “Terrific.”

“I don’t know what you did, Dr. Delaware, but since yesterday she’s been talking more. Cass, can you say elephant again?”

Cassie closed her mouth and crumpled the paper.

Cindy said, “Oh, my,” cuddled her and stroked her cheek. Both of us watched Cassie labor to unfold the picture.

When she finally succeeded she said, “Eh-fa!” compressed the paper again, tighter, into a fist-sized ball, then looked at it, perplexed.

Cindy said, “Sorry, Dr. Delaware. Looks like your elephant isn’t doing too well.”

“Looks like Cassie is.”

She forced a smile and nodded.

Cassie made another attempt to straighten the paper. This time, thimble-sized fingers weren’t up to the task and Cindy helped her. “There you go, honey…. Yes, she’s feeling great.”

“Any problems with procedures?”

“There haven’t been any procedures. Not since yesterday morning. We’ve just been sitting here — it’s…”

“Something the matter?” I said.

She brought her braid forward and smoothed the fringe.

“People must think I’m crazy,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. It was a stupid thing to say — I’m sorry.”

“What’s the matter, Cindy?”

She turned away and played with her braid some more. Then she sat back down. Picking up the deck of cards, she passed it from hand to hand.

“It’s just that…” she said, speaking so softly I had to move closer, “I… each time I bring her here she gets better. And then I take her home, thinking everything’s going to be okay, and it is for a while, and then…”

“And then she gets sick again.”

Keeping her head down, she nodded.

Cassie mumbled something to a plastic figure. Cindy said, “That’s good, baby,” but the little girl didn’t seem to hear.

I said, “And then she gets sick all over again and you’re let down.”

Cassie threw the figure down, picked up another, and began shaking it.

Cindy said, “And then all of a sudden, she’s okay — just like now. That’s what I meant — about being crazy. Sometimes
I
think I’m crazy.”

She shook her head and returned to Cassie’s bedside. Taking a lock of the child’s hair between her fingers, she let it slip away. Peering into the playhouse, she said, “Well, look at that — they’re all eating what you made for dinner!” Her voice was so cheerful it made the roof of my mouth ache.

She stayed there, playing with Cassie’s hair, pointing at the dolls, and prompting. Cassie made imitative sounds. Some of them sounded like words.

I said, “How about we go down for a cup of coffee? Vicki can stay with Cassie.”

Cindy looked up. One hand rested on Cassie’s shoulder. “No — no, I’m sorry, Dr. Delaware, I couldn’t. I never leave her,” she said.

“Never?”

She shook her head. “Not when she’s in here. I know that sounds crazy, too, but I can’t. You hear too many… things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Accidents — someone getting the wrong medicine. Not that I’m actually worried — this is a great hospital. But… I just need to be here. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“I’m sure it’s more for me than for her, but…” She bent and hugged Cassie. Cassie squirmed and continued playing. Cindy gave me a helpless look.

“I know I’m being overprotective,” she said.

“Not considering what you’ve been through.”

“Well… thanks for saying that.”

I pointed to the chair.

She gave a weak smile and sat down.

“It must be a real strain,” I said. “Being here so often. It’s one thing working in a hospital, but being dependent is something else.”

She looked puzzled. “Working in a hospital?”

“You were a respiratory tech, right?” I said. “Didn’t you do it at a hospital?”

“Oh, that. That was such a long time ago. No, I never got that far — didn’t graduate.”

“Lost interest?”

“Kind of.” Picking up the box of cards, she tapped one knee. “Actually, going into R.T. in the first place was my aunt’s idea. She was an R.N. Said a woman should have a skill even if she didn’t use it, and that I should find something that would always be in demand, like health care. With the way we were ruining the air, people smoking, she felt there’d always be a call for R.T.’s.”

“Your aunt sounds like someone with strong opinions.”

She smiled. “Oh, she was. She’s gone now.” Rapid eyeblink. “She was a fantastic person. My parents passed on when I was a kid and she basically raised me by herself.”

“But she didn’t encourage you to go into nursing? Even though she was an R.N.?”

“Actually she recommended
against
nursing. Said it was too much work for too little pay and not enough…”

She gave an embarrassed smile.

“Not enough respect from the doctors?”

“Like you said, Dr. Delaware, she had strong opinions on just about everything.”

“Was she a hospital nurse?”

“No, she worked for the same G.P. for twenty-five years and they bickered the whole time like an old married couple. But he was a really nice man — old-fashioned family doctor, not too good about collecting his bills. Aunt Harriet was always on him for that. She was a real stickler for details, probably from her days in the army — she served in Korea, on the front. Made it to captain.”

“Really,” I said.

“Uh-huh. Because of her I tried out the service, too. Boy, this is really taking me back a few years.”

“You were in the army?”

She gave a half-smile, as if expecting my surprise. “Strange for a girl, huh? It happened in my senior year in high school. The recruiter came out on careers day and made it sound pretty attractive — job training, scholarships. Aunt Harriet thought it would be a good idea, too, so that clinched it.”

“How long were you in?”

“Just a few months.” Her hands worked her braid. “A few months after I arrived I got sick and had to be discharged early.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said. “Must have been serious.”

She looked up. Blushing deeply. Yanking the braid.

“It was,” she said. “Influenza — real bad flu — that developed into pneumonia. Acute viral pneumonia — there was a terrible epidemic in the barracks. Lots of girls got sick. After I recovered, they said my lungs might be weakened and they didn’t want me in anymore.” Shrug. “So that was it. My famous military career.”

“Was it a big disappointment?”

“No, not really. Everything worked out for the best.” She looked at Cassie.

“Where were you stationed?”

“Fort Jackson. Down in South Carolina. It was one of the few places they trained only women. It was the summer — you don’t think of pneumonia in the summer, but a germ’s a germ, right?”

“True.”

“It was really humid. You could shower and feel dirty two seconds later. I wasn’t used to it.”

“Did you grow up in California?”

“California native,” she said, waving an imaginary flag. “Ventura. My family came out from Oklahoma originally. Gold Rush days. One of my great-grandmothers was part Indian — according to my aunt, that’s where the hair comes from.”

She hefted the braid, then dropped it.

“’Course, it’s probably not true,” she said, smiling. “Everyone wants to be Indian now. It’s kind of fashionable.” She looked at me: “Delaware. With that name you could be part Indian too.”

“There’s a family myth that says so — one third of one great-great-grandfather. I guess what I
am
is a mongrel — little bit of everything.”