Sisterhood (22 page)

“David, please!” Lauren screamed. “You’re acting crazy. Please get hold of yourself. It frightens me to see you like this.”

He stopped in his tracks and forced his hands open. A deep breath, then he said, “I’m sorry, babe. I am. First it’s too much joking, then too much crazy.” He managed a thin smile. “I guess I’m just … too much, huh?” He sank numbly into the couch. “Lauren, could you hold me for a minute?” he asked, reaching his hands to her.

Lauren’s lips tightened. She looked at the floor and shook her head. “David, we’ve got to talk.”

“So talk.” He folded his hands in his lap.

“My wire service has people all over, David. Including the police department here. Business like this—being questioned at the police station and all—my boss is very straight and very conservative. If he gets wind of this—”

“Jesus Christ!” David exploded. “You make it sound as if I’m doing all this to give you a black eye. Can’t you understand that I haven’t done anything? My God, here I am being harassed up and down by some monomaniac, in danger of losing my career—or worse—and my girl friend is worried about being embarrassed in front of her bureau chief. This is insane. Absolutely insane!”

“David”—Lauren’s voice was low and measured with anger—“I’ve told you over and over again how much I dislike the label ‘girl friend.’ Now please calm down, and try to understand my position in this thing, too.”

Speechless, David could only look at her and shake his head. Lauren straightened her dress, sat rigidly upright, and met his incredulity with defiance. “I know you’ll be pleased to hear,” she said, “that of all the things you have to worry about, having to endure the Art Society dinner dance Thursday will not be one of them. After the lieutenant brought me home, Elliot May called and asked if I was planning on going. I knew how little you were looking forward to the affair, so I took the opportunity of relieving you of the burden.” The wildness in his eyes was frightening. She forced her lips into a proud pout and turned toward the window.

He rose and took a step toward her. In that frozen, terrifying moment, he sensed his self-control slipping away. Fists clenched, he took another step.

Suddenly, the buzzer from the downstairs foyer sounded.
David whirled and half stalked, half stumbled to the intercom in the hall.

“Yes?” he shouted.

“It’s Lieutenant Dockerty, Dr. Shelton.” The policeman’s voice crackled from four floors below. “May I come up, please?”

“Do I have a choice?” David said as he pressed the door release.

For the next half-minute the only sound was David’s breathing—bitter, frantic gulps, gradually slowing as he fought for composure. He had been expecting a visit from Dockerty for the past two days. Typical of the man to pick a time like this to show up. He heard the clank as the gears of the rickety elevator engaged. Standing by the door, he shook his head disdainfully at the groan from the straining cables. The antiquated box took more than a minute to make the four-floor trip. A second clank, and the rattle of the automatic inside gate signaled its arrival. David stepped from his apartment just as Dockerty pushed open the heavy outside door of the elevator. He was accompanied by a tall uniformed officer.

“Dr. Shelton, this is Officer Kolb,” Dockerty said. “May we come in, please?” It was an order. David thought for a moment about Lauren, then shrugged and led them into the living room.

“Miss Nichols.” Dockerty nodded, but made no move to introduce Kolb to her.

Lauren stood and picked up her raincoat. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said formally, “I was just leaving.”

She had taken one step toward the door when Dockerty said, “I think perhaps you had better stay, Miss Nichols.” Lauren’s eyes narrowed at him. She stiffened, then strode back to her chair.

Inside David confusion and panic began to build.

Dockerty stared at the floor for a few silent seconds, then reached into his coat pocket and produced a manillacovered pad. The forms inside it were green. “Dr.
Shelton,” he said, handing the pad to David, “do you recognize these?”

David flipped through the sheets, then stammered, “Yes, they’re my C two-twenty-two order forms. But I don’t see what …”

“For ordering narcotics?” Dockerty asked.

“Yes, but …”

“They’re preprinted with your name, aren’t they?”

“Enough!” The word shot out. “I’ve had enough of this. Would you tell me what you want, or … or leave.” He was nearly screaming. Inside his gut, inside his chest huge knots formed and began to tighten.

“Dr. Shelton, I sent notice to all the pharmacies in the city, asking for the names of everyone who purchased injectable morphine in the last month.” He produced a single green form from his breast pocket. “This form C two-twenty-two was used to purchase three vials of morphine sulfate from the Quigg Pharmacy in West Roxbury. It’s dated October second, the day Charlotte Thomas was murdered. It’s your form, Dr. Shelton. There’s your name printed right on it.”

David snatched the form away. “That’s not my signature,” he said automatically. He stared at the writing, then closed his eyes. For years he had been kidded—had himself made jokes—about the scrawl that was his signature. “An unscrupulous chimp could prescribe for my patients,” he had once quipped. The signature on the C222 would have passed his desk without a second notice.

“Perhaps,” Dockerty responded tonelessly. “But I suspect that it is. You see, Doctor, there’s more. The warrant I obtained to search your office allowed me to remove not only your forms, but this.” He reached in his pocket again and produced a small, gold-framed photo. “Mr. Quigg at the pharmacy has positively identified you from this photo as the one who purchased the morphine from him.”

David stared down at the picture. It was one he had never been able to put away. The whole family—David, Ginny, and three-year-old Becky—posing by the swan boats in Boston’s Public Garden. It had been taken only two months before the accident.

For a time Dockerty seemed unable to speak. Finally he shook his head. “David Shelton, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Charlotte Thomas.”

The words fell on David like hammers. An uncomfortable, high-pitched buzzing noise began swelling in his head. He tried to shake the sound loose as the tall policeman read him his rights from a frayed, cardboard card. The man’s words seemed jumbled and slurred. David watched, a detached observer, as uniformed arms reached out and handcuffed his wrists behind him. Dockerty’s apology for having to use the restraints was nearly lost in the mounting buzz.

David was disoriented, frightened almost beyond functioning. He tried to pull away. Without a flicker of expression, the patrolman tightened his grip.

Bewildered and mortified, Lauren backed away as David, needing support to stand, was led out the door.

Dockerty moved to follow, then turned to her. “He’s going to need a lawyer, Miss Nichols,” he said grimly. “If I were you, I’d make sure it was a damn good one.” With a nod, he headed down the corridor.

The wind had died off, but a cold, heavy rain was still falling. Dockerty threw a windbreaker around David’s shoulders and zipped it up the front. Even so, by the time they dragged him the short distance to the squad car he was soaked to the skin. Through bizarre, disconnected scenes, David watched the events of his own arrest. The eerie blue light, a strobe atop the squad car … tiny, perfect diamond shapes in the metal screen … pedestrians bundled against the downpour, frozen
through the screen and the front windshield. David saw them all in stop-action. A grotesque slide show.

The station house … the lights … the uniforms. Then it was the voices. “Empty your pockets …” “…  son, can you hear me? Son? …” “…  here’s his wallet. Get the shit you need from his license …” “Give me your right hand, thumb first …” “Over here, stand over here …” “…  the other hand now …” “Look, fella, it’s just a number. Let it hang there …” “Face straight ahead … now turn … no, this way, this way …” “Three’s empty. Put him in there …”

Next it was the noises. Scraping of metal on metal … a loud clang—the elevator?—no, not here. Can’t be the elevator … music … from where? … where is the music coming from? … More voices … “…  here, boss, over here …” “…  a light, I need another light. My fucking cigarette’s soggy …” “When the fuck’s dinner? Don’t we even get fed here? …”

Finally, the wide, blurry bands … up and down in front of him. Gradually the blurs narrowed and darkened.… Bars! They were bars!

Again the buzzing crescendo. Images of other bars, other screens exploded through his mind.

“No! Please, God, no!” he screamed. He whirled and dropped to his knees by the toilet, retching uncontrollably into water already murky with disinfectant.

Barely aware of the bile singeing his nose and throat, David crawled across the stone floor and pulled himself onto a metal-framed cot. He descended into a cold, unnatural sleep long before his sobs had faded.

“T
ime to move out, son. There’s some Listerine in this cup. Splash some cold water on your face and swish this stuff around in your mouth for a minute. It’ll help you wake up.”

David worked his eyes open a crack. His first sight of the morning was the same as his last the night before. Bars. This time the narrow blue and white bars of the sweat-stained pillow beneath his face.

The officer was a plethoric man, fifty or so, with a belly that hung several inches over his belt. He leaned against the doorframe of the cell and watched patiently while David pulled himself up and wiped sooty sleep from his eyes. “Are you able to talk, son?” he asked.

David nodded, squinted at the man, then took the mouthwash. The officer seemed in no great hurry, so David took a minute to stretch the ache from the muscles in his neck and back, trying at the same time to get some sense of himself. For the moment, at least, the terror and confusion of the past night were gone. In their place was a strange but quite comfortable feeling of well-being. Knees locked, he bent forward and put the tips of all ten fingers on the floor. Peaceful, he thought.
This shithole, all the madness, and here I am feeling peaceful.

Then he remembered. It was at summer camp. He was eleven—no, twelve—years old. A sudden stomach cramp while swimming far from the raft. In an instant he was on the bottom, pain strangling his gut and water forcing its way into his lungs. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain and the terror had vanished. In their place, the same detached peace. He was dying—then and now—helpless and dying.

The sergeant’s radish cheeks puffed in a grin. “Glad to see you’re feelin’ better,” he said. “The night boys were worried. Said you weren’t even able to hold a dime, much less make the phone call they tried to give you.” When David didn’t answer, he added, “You are feelin’ better, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m okay, thanks,” David said distantly, still testing his body and his feelings for pain. “Wh … where am I, anyway?”

“District One,” the man answered. He looked at David with renewed concern. “You’re in the jail at District One in Boston. Do you understand that?” David nodded. “We have to go now. You’ve got to go to court. The judge and the people at the court will help you. Don’t you worry.”

David watched with bemused curiosity as the policeman clicked a handcuff on his right wrist and led him out of the cell. He smiled politely at the black, silver-haired prisoner who was snapped into the other cuff. Calmly, fuguelike, he focused on the manacled hands—black and white—and followed them into the back seat of a squad car.

“Name’s Lyons,” the black man said as the car pulled away. “Reggie Lyons.” His wise face held countless thin lines, etched by years of hard living, and several thicker ones, clearly carved by more tangible items.

“David. I’m David,” he answered.

“You ain’t never been this route before, David, have you?” Lyons asked. David shrugged, looked out the window, and shook his head. “Well, you is in for a treat. The tank at Suffolk is the worst, man. I mean the pits.” David stared at a motorcycle cruising next to them and nodded. “Hey, you all right? Well, it don’t matter much one way or tuther. Crazy’s prob’ly better. You just stick close to ol’ Reggie. He’ll take care of you.”

The tank was, in fact, a cage. The holding room for prisoners awaiting court appearances. Twenty men, all “presumed innocent” were packed inside—rapists, drunks, vagrants, murderers, flashers. Around the outside, half a dozen lawyers were vying to be heard over one another and over the din inside. “Perkins, which one of you is Perkins? …” “Frankly, Arnold, I don’t give a flying fuck if the kid is guilty or innocent. He either cops the first charge and saves us a trial or he ends up going down for both and spending three to five in Walpole …” “Look, kid, I know what you’ve seen on
Perry Mason
, but that just ain’t the way it works. Today we don’t talk guilty or not guilty. Today we talk money. If you have some or can get some, we bail you out. Otherwise you wait for your trial in Charles Street. Nobody cares about your story today. This is just for bail. Understand? Just for bail …”

David wedged himself in one corner of the tank and stared through the chain link at a high window that was opaque with grime. Bit by bit, reality—and the terror—was returning. He thought about the hospital. The operating rooms would already be on their second cases of the day.

“Hey, David, you got a lawyer?” Reggie Lyons stood next to him, leaning against the cage. A cigarette, wrinkled and bent, popped up and down at the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

“Ah, no, Reggie, I don’t,” David said absently. “At
least, not that I know of.” An uncomfortable pressure grew beneath his breast bone. He tried to remember when he had last eaten. When he had last run by the river. He looked about the cage, awareness growing every second and with it an abysmal despair.

“Shelton? David Shelton. Which one of you is Shelton?” The bailiff was a dumpy man in his late fifties. There was an air about him—a look in his eyes—that suggested his favorite pastime outside of court might be pulling the wings off insects.

Reggie Lyons leaned over and whispered, “David, don’t you be scared now. Jes’ go in there an think about the beach or your favorite broad or somethin’. All the uniforms an’ robes is jes’ dress-up. A game they play to impress one another an’ scare the shit out of us.”