The Doctor Rocks the Boat (15 page)

“In a matter of speaking. Why?”

“In a matter of speaking,” he mimicked Fenimore, “the medical examiner has labeled it a suspicious death and sent me the autopsy report.”

So it was out.

“I was going to go back to the ME for a translation of this gobbledygook,” Rafferty said, “but thought I'd check it out with you first.”

“His initial collapse was thought to be an SCD episode. His father was diagnosed with an SCD tendency, and the condition is often genetic,” Fenimore said.

“So what was he doing rowing?”

“That's a long story.”

“Give me the short version.”

Fenimore told him about Caroline Ashburn's request for help with her son; Chuck's subsequent examination by Dr. Burton; the doctor's report that he was SCD-free; the later discovery that he did, in fact, have an SCD tendency and had received an ICD implant. (He skipped adroitly over how this knowledge had come to light.)

“And he was still rowing?”

“Yes. He and his father hid his condition from his mother.”

“Nice family. Go on.”

“The kid was twenty-one, so legally he could do what he wanted. I tried to change his mind—but failed.”

“Right.”

“Now, the autopsy reveals”—Fenimore continued—“that Chuck had no evidence of cardiac dysfunction: no enlargement of the heart; no thickening of the arteries; and no apparent need for the ICD implant. The doctor's report was a fabrication and the implant was an unnecessary procedure.”

“What the hell? Have you asked the father—
your pal
—about all this?”

“We're not on speaking terms at the moment.”

“What about the doctor? Why would he falsify his reports?”

“I don't know. But I mean to find out.”

“Fine. What about the lab report.”

“I'm coming to that. The autopsy revealed an incredibly high potassium level. The low potassium that he registered upon admission to the CCU had to be corrected, but the replacement is always done gradually. I've never seen this degree of hypercorrection. It indicates that the potassium was given to Chuck all at once and could have been the cause of death.”

“How did they give it to him?” Rafferty asked.

“Intravenously.”

“Could someone have made a mistake?”

“Unlikely. It was too gross.”

“That narrows the time down, at least. The lethal dose had to be administered after he was in the CCU,” said Rafferty.

“That's right.”

“It also eliminates a lot of people. Only medical personnel would know how to administer potassium via an IV.”

“True—unless they paid someone to do it.”

“You have a Machiavellian mind, Fenimore,” the policeman said. “But why would someone want to kill the kid? Do you have any ideas?”

“No.” Fenimore wasn't ready to share his PPI list just yet. “But I'm going to check out a few alibis.”

“Be careful, Fenimore. Someone tried to drown you, remember?”

“This time, I promise I'll stick to dry land.” He hung up.

Mrs. Doyle stood in the doorway, looking displeased. “It's that woman,” she said in a low voice. “She's in the waiting room. She was going to just walk in on you, but I stopped her. She doesn't have an appointment. I was half tempted to throw her out.”

Fenimore had often thought his nurse had missed her calling. She would have made a good bouncer. “What woman?”

“The Ashburn woman. I know, I know, she's suffered a terrible loss. But she's so pushy!”

“Easy does it,” the doctor soothed. “Send her in.”

Mrs. Doyle flounced out. At least as much as someone of her girth
could
flounce. A moment later, Caroline Ashburn came in. She did not look pushy. She looked weak and frail. His nurse must have been basing her opinion on past experience. Fenimore guided her to a chair.

As soon as she was seated, she said, in a voice that had lost most of its timbre, “I'm so sorry about your accident, Andrew.” Fenimore could scarcely hear her. “I wanted to come to the hospital, but . . .”

“Nonsense. I'm sorry I couldn't get to the service.” Liar. That had been the one silver lining in his hospital stay; he had been spared the ordeal of Chuck's funeral. But he could have bitten off
his tongue, because the mention of the service triggered a choking sob from Caroline. He jumped up and offered his handkerchief. He always kept a clean, cotton one in his upper left jacket pocket, just in case.

She blew her nose noisily.

Fenimore pretended to study some papers on his desk until she regained her composure.

“I just wanted you to know that I appreciate all you tried to do, and . . .” She faltered. Fenimore was afraid she was going to break down again. But she took a deep breath and continued. “And I . . . I . . .” She looked around the office as if wondering where she was and how she got there.

“Are you all right, Caroline?”

“Oh yes . . . I just . . .” Again, she paused and the vacant stare returned.

Was this all caused by grief or could she possibly be taking something? “Has your doctor prescribed a sedative for you?” Fenimore asked.

“Hmm?”

“Tranquilizers. Are you taking them?”

She looked as if she had never heard of them.

“Caroline?”

She focused on him, but it seemed to require a great effort.

“How did you get here?”

“Uh . . . train.”

“The Paoli Local?”

She nodded.

“And then you took a cab here?”

She nodded again.

“Just to thank me?”

Another nod.

“I appreciate your coming down,” he said. “How is Charlie doing?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head mutely.

“I'm going to drive you home.”

“Oh no.” She was suddenly alert. “You have to limit your activity.”

Ignoring this, he looked down at the paper on his desk. “But before we go, I want to tell you about Chuck's lab report—”

“No!” With a sudden burst of energy, she stood up. “I don't want to hear about it.”

“But . . .”Fenimore rose too.

“I'm glad you've recovered.” She produced a grim replica of a smile. “We'd better be going.”

As Fenimore escorted her through the office, he told his nurse, a trifle defiantly, “I'm driving Mrs. Ashburn home.”

She sent him a disapproving look.

W
hen Fenimore returned to his office, it was blessedly empty, except for Sal, who deigned to drop from the windowsill and wrap herself around his ankles. This unusual gesture conveyed the message that she had been worried about him. He reached down and scratched between her ears, to reassure her. If only humans could communicate so easily.

The phone rang.

“Hi, Fenimore.”

A voice—vaguely familiar.

“Burton here. Heard about your accident. Bad luck.”

Fenimore frowned at the phone. Luck had absolutely nothing to do with it.

“I had an idea. How about coming up to my place for a few days to recupe? I know we've just met, but I feel we're compatible. We both respect the old medical values. And, hey, we're brothers!” he said, referring to their membership in the same fraternity. “If you have a significant other, bring her along too.”

Fenimore hated that term.

“It's nice up here this time of year. You'll recover a lot quicker if you get your lungs out of that smog factory.”

“Nice of you to think of it, Burton, but I'm way behind, and—”

“Why don't you run it by your girlfriend? Maybe she'll change your mind.”

Girlfriend.
Another term he disliked.

“I have a hunting lodge in the woods, not far from my place. Very cozy and private. Charlie and I go there every fall.”

Fenimore was getting irritated. “Thanks. Maybe some other time.”

“Well okay, Fenimore.”

Fenimore hung up.
And why do you falsify your reports and recommend unnecessary operations, Burton?
he thought savagely.

He had barely finished this thought when the phone rang again. This time it was Myra Henderson. Fenimore thanked her for the flowers she had sent him at the hospital. A beautiful arrangement of lilacs—lavender, pink, and white. When he had finished, she shocked him with the words “Maybe we should let the boathouses go.”

“What?” Fenimore thought he had misheard her.

“If rowing is such a dangerous sport, maybe it should be outlawed.”

“It's not the sport that's dangerous, it's the people,” Fenimore objected hotly.

“I suppose. But a tragedy like that of the Ashburn boy, and your near drowning, makes one think. Puts everything in perspective. What is losing a few old buildings compared to losing lives?”

Had he been right about Myra? Did she want to get rid of the boathouses? “But we have to go on,” he heard himself utter the banal refrain.

“That's what people always say.” She sighed. “But no one has ever given me a good reason.”

For the first time, Myra's voice sounded old and weary to Fenimore. He felt compelled to cheer her up. “How would you like to meet me for a martini tomorrow at one of your Bryn Mawr watering holes?”

“Do you mean it, Doctor?” She instantly revived.

“Of course.”

“Then let's do it right and I'll come into town. We'll go to the Barchester.” The Barchester was one of Philadelphia's most elegant residential hotels, located on Rittenhouse Square. Mrs. Henderson had lived there for forty years before a hip operation had forced her into a retirement home in the suburbs. “I've been put out to pasture, Doctor,” she told him mournfully. “It will be a treat to get back to the city.”

It seemed to Fenimore that she got back to the city fairly frequently—the regatta, the hearing at City Hall. “But that's a trip for you,” he said, envisioning the elderly woman staggering onto the Paoli Local after two martinis.

“Pish posh. I still have Charles, you know. Not Charlie Ashburn—Charles, my chauffeur.”

“In that case, it's a deal,” Fenimore said. “What time?”

“Five o'clock, of course—the cocktail hour.”

“I'll be there.”

Plenty of phone calls—
all except the one I wanted,
Fenimore thought. Jennifer hadn't called to welcome him home. Where was she? Off in South Jersey picking cranberries with her Indian chief? That morose Montezuma!

“Doctor!” A voice roused him from his gloomy musings. It came from the kitchen. He followed it.

Doyle, Rat, and Tanya were seated cozily around the kitchen table having dinner.

“Hey, Doc. Have a seat.” Horatio pointed to the remaining empty chair and a place set with a plate of spaghetti and sauce, tossed salad, garlic bread, and a Coke.

“It's about time.” Mrs. Doyle rolled her eyes. “I called you.”

“Sorry.” He told her he'd been tied up on the phone. He sat down and dug in, without a single thought about cholesterol. After satisfying his appetite, he turned to Tanya. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Her smile sparkled.

She certainly looked better. He challenged Mrs. Doyle. “What are you doing here?”

“Meet your new live-in cook, maid, and baby-sitter,” she said cheerfully.

Since Jennifer seemed temporarily unavailable for any of these roles, Fenimore gave her a grateful smile.

“And you?” He turned to Horatio.

He shrugged.

“He keeps me company,” Tanya said sweetly.

The boy flushed.

“Horatio has a surprise for you, Doctor,” said Mrs. Doyle.

He looked at Rat. The boy bent and rolled up his cargo pant leg to his knee, exposing a pale, thin, naked calf.

“It's gone!”

Horatio smiled. “Yep! Came off today.”

“This calls for a celebration! What have we got for dessert, Mrs. Doyle?”

“That's all taken care of.” She nodded to Tanya.

The girl jumped up and ran to the refrigerator. Beaming, she came back bearing a huge chocolate cake decorated with a pink stick figure of Rat waving his cast in the air. “I made it myself,” she said shyly.

Predictably, Horatio—the man of few words—said, “Cool.”

Later that evening—after Horatio had gone home, Mrs. Doyle had gone to bed and Tanya was watching a favorite TV show—Fenimore pulled out his PPI list and studied it. This time he checked each person on the list for their medical expertise.

Henry Walsh: Hadn't Charlie told him that Hank's father had started out at medical school and then switched to law school? You could learn enough in the first year to master an IV line.

Hank Walsh: He was going to go to medical school, “and finish what my father started,” he had told Jennifer. He was taking a year out to give Henley a try. With his interest in medicine, he had probably learned enough from reading and occasional visits to friends in the hospital to handle a simple IV.

Frank O'Brien: Every coach had to take courses in CPR and advanced life support. Surely he had a working knowledge of IVs.

William Ott: He had designed a number of hospitals and probably absorbed enough knowledge through osmosis to do a simple injection into an IV line.

Charlie was a surgeon, of course, and Caroline Ashburn had plenty of opportunity to absorb knowledge from her husband. And, it wouldn't be hard to look up the lethal dose of potassium in Charlie's
Physicians' Desk Reference.

Jack Newborn:
No medical connections that I know of.
But he had plenty of dough to hire someone who did.

Myra Henderson: She had been a hospital patient often enough to observe how IV lines worked. And with her acute intelligence, she'd have no problem putting her knowledge to work.

Geoffrey Hunter-Powell: I know nothing about him. I'll have to look into his background.