Eye Sleuth (17 page)

“They seem to. I can’t think of any reason why she’d be attacked. Can you?”

“I don’t know, Lars. But so many crazy things have been happening, it’s hard to know what to think. I’m glad you’re keeping someone on the security detail.” I hesitated then went on, consciously choosing my words, mindful of the effect they could have at a time when Lars was dealing with so much.

“Lanny needs rehabilitation. It will take time, Lars, don’t expect an overnight recovery. Lanny’s a fighter, she’ll give it her best and then some. Your support will mean so much to her, even if she isn’t able to tell you that for a while.”

We parted outside the club and I walked the few blocks back to SUNY thinking about the drastic changes TBI victims go through.

“Nothing will ever be the same for me again,” Janet Stumbo said after her terrible car accident. But she’d done more than survive, she’d prevailed and created a new life for herself. A shining example of what is possible despite TBI. I was glad Lars had suggested that I stay for a few days at Lanny’s before I left for the conference in England. I’d be able to see for myself how Lanny managed her daily routine, a critical first step for any TBI victim. My happiness that the coma was over was a jubilant tidal wave that carried me through an afternoon of challenging work on Fred Anders’ paper for the upcoming conference. I was finally grasping the full meaning of the equipment developed by the man who’d been the college’s resident genius.

As usual, I ignored my own advice and sat for hours pecking away at the keyboard till my neck was stiff and my eyes sore, clear signals I’d put my vision system under pressure. It’s simple enough to look away from the screen and into the distance every twenty minutes for a minute or two to relax your vision but who remembers? Not me, not most of the people I know. At the end of the afternoon I called the hospital.

On the way to the hospital, I thought about the talk Lars and I’d had at lunch. Even mild TBI means there’s injury to the speed and efficiency of the way the nervous system works. On top of memory loss and lapses, it can be so hard for someone who is TBI to remember how to get from one place to the next or even remember what food one likes. Lanny would need time to develop coping skills. That’s where the care-giving would come in, helping to evaluate her needs, devising ways to work around limitations. She faced a long hard road ahead. Even though I knew all this, I was filled with joy as I pushed open the door to Lanny’s room.

My godmother was propped up against a mound of pillows, looking tired but awake. Her curly brown hair framed a pale face dominated by wide brown eyes. She was not tethered to any machines, they’d been pushed back to the wall. She recognized me instantly and held her arms out for a hug.

“Are you taking me home?” Lanny asked. “It’s impossible to rest here.” Her voice was low but clear and her words understandable but ever so slightly slurred. Medication perhaps. “I’ve a terrible headache and they won’t give me anything for it,” she was plaintive, not a tone I’d ever heard from her.

Behind us, Dag cleared his throat, probably a signal to steer away from the subject of pills for headaches.

Several times Lanny asked why she was in the hospital yet she didn’t question me further when each time I told her she’d been in an accident.

“Andy at the front desk said some man who’d probably been to see the current show was on his way out but turned back and followed you in. He was a stranger, not a member, and Andy said he couldn’t hear what was said but the man seemed angry.”

“My dear, I truly cannot remember anything or even think about anything right now,” my godmother said.

She closed her eyes wearily, and was asleep instantly. I kissed her cheek and fussed with smoothing her covers, reluctant to leave. Finally, I walked over to where Dag sat.

“I guess everyone’s asked every possible way if she remembers anything about the attack?”

“Yes,” Dag said. “Lars even suggested I ask a few questions if I thought there was a good time to do so but I’m afraid there hasn’t been one yet.”

“It’s a relief to see Lanny awake and unhooked from all the equipment. Has she been given something for the headaches?”

Dag nodded. “Whatever they try, nothing lasts. Her headaches must be terrible.”

“That’s not good,” I said, filing the information away. Something other than medication might help. Chiropractic work or shiatsu, the Japanese version of acupuncture. No needles in shiatsu, only skillful finger pressure on the body.

“Tina’s been on rotation with me for several days so she and Mrs. Oldenburg can get to know each other. Tina’ll come back tomorrow and help take Mrs. O home if all goes well. As you see, rest is needed.” He hesitated then continued, lowering his voice. “Her attention span is, well…fractured is the word that comes to mind. So far, she doesn’t remember the attack. She definitely has amnesia about that day and the days before it, and she rarely remembers what she’s told, even a moment later.”

“That’s classic with TBI,” I said. “If there’s frontal lobe damage, it’s the short-term memory that’s affected. Rehabilitation takes time and work but it’s possible.”

I told Dag I’d call the next day to see if Lanny was actually going home and thanked him for all he’d done to look after her while she was in the hospital.

“It’s one of the quietest duties I’ve ever had,” he confessed. “The consulate can be hectic between visiting dignitaries and UN activities. While I was here, I read a lot.”

That evening, I was anxious to leave. Even though I had more to do to prepare for the conference, it was mostly revisions and polishing. As I thought about what other uses there might be for the equipment Fred Anders had created, I realized I probably had information the police did not. Ought I to call Dan Riley and mention my suspicions? It was possible he’d dismiss my suspicions the way he’d dismissed my concern about Mary Sakamoto’s warning of danger. I certainly didn’t have any evidence. No, I damn well wasn’t going to call the police, why waste time, mine and his? Then it struck me. If I really was serious about this suspicion, I ought to do something to protect the information about Fred Anders’ work. Usually, I’d back up everything I’d written about the prototypes on a flash drive and lock that in the filing cabinet in my office or, if I had time of an evening, I’d take the flash drive home to see if I could get some more work done. From here on, I’d always take the flash drive with me when I left the college. That decision felt satisfying, almost as if I’d made some progress, though all I’d done was take a precaution. What was it a precaution against? Probably nothing, time would tell.

By now, it was five, and although often I worked late, I was eager to see Lanny back on home turf. It was time to leave. Staying at 34 Gramercy Park, the first cooperative building in New York, would be like old times, when I was a student, working evenings at the club. Back then, I’d leave the club after my shift, walk the half block to Lanny’s and stay overnight. In the morning, I only had to walk the few blocks to college. A perfect arrangement. The spacious apartment where Lanny lived alone since the death of her husband and daughter was one of the few that remained true to the architect’s 1895 plans. Most of the original units, which had rambled grandly, three to a floor, had been carved up into smaller apartments. Ceilings in the Queen Anne style building still soared magnificently and windows and the ornate, brass-hinged doors had matching proportions.

The original staff quarters on the top floor, small, low-ceilinged rooms, had been converted into an apartment for the super and his family. The super, who ran the place with meticulous care, loved the personal side of the building’s history and was proud of former residents like Margaret Hamilton, whose most famous role had been as the Wicked Witch of the West in “The Wizard of Oz.” The locals said she was charming in person. As for James Cagney, turned out he definitely was not a tough guy in real life.

When I rang the front door bell, the doorman peered out from his cubby at the opposite end of the cavernous lobby. He recognized me and buzzed the door open, not bothering to amble the length of the hall. He stepped into the elevator after me and prepared to take me up. The place, built by the man who developed Gramercy Park to induce people to move downtown and into the building, still had an Otis hand-run elevator, the last in the country, a gem of inlaid wood and mirrors. All the operator had to do to run the elevator was tug gently on the cable. Usually the takeoff or landing was silk-smooth, unless you got the old timer who enjoyed a jug or two of wine of an evening. Then you were guaranteed a bumpy ride. Every ride had background music of clanks and wheezes as you rose or descended at a leisurely pace.

Lars let me in and I took my case to my old room. The apartment was in the shape of a capital L. The enormous, formal living room on the short stroke of the L overlooked Gramercy Park, so did the two small rooms next to the living room. These were opposite a bathroom and a small butler’s pantry. The long part of the L had a vast kitchen and next to it was a cozy family room. Then came two generous bedrooms and a second bathroom. The furniture was warm wood, Scandinavian style, the curtains, chairs and couch in the brilliant fabrics Swedes use to brighten their long, somber winters. After I dropped my case in my old room, I found Lars in the kitchen, snacking on dark bread coated with blackberry jam, no butter—his country’s national memory of food shortages from centuries of war, nothing to do with calories or cholesterol levels.

“Lanny went to bed right after she got home, she was exhausted. She’s been resting ever since. Tina left some time ago,” he told me. “For some reason, I’m exhausted, too. How about I whip up a cheese omelet?”

I watched as he moved around the kitchen and my nose twitched at the aroma of butter sizzling in the pan. We ate and talked more about Lanny’s rehabilitation.

“When will we get the old Lanny back?” Lars asked.

“Give Lanny time to settle in, she’ll be different in many ways,” I said, rather than give him the bald truth that we might never see the old Lanny. “I put that book, Endless Journey, by Janet Stumbo, on the hall table for you.”

Lars stared at me for a long moment then nodded in tired acceptance.

The next morning, I left before anyone else was up. Lars and I had both gone to bed early and I woke at the crack of dawn, enthusiastic about starting the day. SUNY was tranquil at this time in the morning, not many people in yet, and I was deep in work when the phone rang. It was Beth Bazin. We’d graduated together and kept in touch, although she was in private practice in New Jersey.

“Some Albany politician was picked up in a sting operation. He’s given Matt’s name in return for an immunity deal. Story is a lot of fiddling was going on, books being cooked. The auditors swooped down on the college late yesterday afternoon with agents from the Department of Finance and checked Matt’s office and found discrepancies in the records. It looks as though he’s the only person who could be responsible. Matt denied it but he’s been locked out of his office, told to wait at home until they finish going over the files. Didn’t I always say he had unplumbed depths?”

The news took my breath away. I couldn’t remember anything remotely like it happening at the college. Beth’s source had to be her husband. An ad executive, he worked in mid-town and car-pooled in from the suburbs with one of the college administrators.

“As I recall, you always said Wahr was a dreamboat and you were sorry he was married,” I teased Beth. “What sort of discrepancies?”

“Major. Fiddling the taxes. Big question is, who was getting the loot? I’m relying on you to check out what people are saying. It doesn’t seem possible, does it? We always thought Matt was one of the best, we all did. Whoever did this, it’s a disaster for the college.”

I agreed. Theft, if that’s what it was, would hit hard. Our budget was perennially anemic, every dollar stretched thin. Was I ever glad my responsibilities were clearly defined. I wore two hats. As one of the optometrists at the Infants’ Clinic, I examined patients, gave them vision therapy and kept their charts current. As a researcher, I worked on whatever projects my boss assigned me. I had absolutely no connection with administrative or financial matters and always had pitied those involved with the college’s budgetary workings.