The Doctor Rocks the Boat (21 page)

He pulled up a chair to the bedside.

“I had to tell someone, and you're the only one who will understand.” She looked past him, out the window. When she spoke, her words came in a rush. “I killed him, Andrew. I killed my own son.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I pretended I wanted Chuck to go to Henley to throw you off the track. But all the time I had this plan.”

Fenimore looked incredulous.

“It's true. I got it from Charlie's
PDR.
I found out that if I combined my diuretic with Charlie's prostate medicine, the mixture would cause low blood pressure, dizziness, even fainting—all symptoms that resemble SCD. I ground up two of my own water pills and mixed it with two capsules of Charlie's prostate medicine. Then, when I was making Chuck's lunch, I sprinkled the mixture in his sandwich. It was only supposed to make him dizzy—or pass out momentarily. I thought the symptoms would be mistaken for an SCD attack and stop him from rowing forever!” Her features became contorted into a grotesque mask. “But I'm no doctor, Andrew . . . and
I put in too much
!” She began to sob—great wrenching sobs.

“Stop it!” Fenimore grabbed Caroline and shook her.

She stared.

“You didn't kill Chuck.”

“What . . . ?”

“Did you inject potassium into his IV line?”

Her eyes widened.

“Did you?” he hissed.

“No!” She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“That's how Chuck died. Someone injected a lethal dose of potassium into his IV line while he was unconscious in the CCU.”

Caroline fainted.

L
eaving Caroline to the care of her nurses and Charlie, Fenimore went back to the lobby to tell Jennifer what had happened.

“Poor soul. I never liked her, but I wouldn't wish such a fate on anyone.”

“I have to go to the CCU and check out a few things. Do you want to take the car?”

“No, I'll take the bus home. But . . . be careful.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

He was in luck. The nurse who had been in charge the day Chuck had died was on duty. He asked if he could speak to her privately when she had a minute. While he waited in the corridor, he went over the latest events. Everything was still conjecture. There was no proof that Burton had arranged that fire. And there was no witness to testify that he had injected potassium into Chuck's IV line. In fact, nothing had happened to eliminate the other two men from his PPI list—Ott and O'Brien. He needed one concrete piece of evidence.
Maybe this nurse could provide it,
he thought as she came toward him.

“What can I do for you, Doctor?” she asked.

“On the day Chuck Ashburn died, can you remember anyone coming into the CCU who didn't belong there?”

“Oh my.” She sighed. “That's a tough one. It was almost a week ago, you know.”

“I know,” Fenimore said apologetically. “But it's very important.”

She closed her eyes. Then she said slowly, “There was one orderly . . .”

“Yes?”

“He was only there for a minute ‘to check the bedpans,' he said.”

“What did he look like?” Fenimore prodded.

“Nondescript. Middle-height, middle-weight, middle-aged . . .” She brightened. “That's why I remember him. . . . He was middle-aged. Most orderlies are young guys. You know, working their way through college.”

“Do you have a schedule of the orderlies assigned to the CCU?”

She nodded. “I'll get it.”

Fenimore's pulse had quickened. Was he on to something?

The nurse came back with the sheet. Fenimore scanned it. “You've been very helpful, Ms . . . ?”

“Rochester. I'm glad.” She smiled, and returned to her demanding duties.

From the schedule, Fenimore had learned there were two orderlies on duty the day Chuck died—one from 7:00
A.M
. to 4:00
P.M
.; the other from 4:00
P.M
. to 7:00
A.M
. The orderly who was on duty during the time Chuck was in the CCU was Juan Roderigo. Fenimore tracked him down in the basement, where he was returning a gurney that had a squeaky wheel in need of repair. Juan looked about twenty and was anything but nondescript. Dark and solidly built, he was what the girls would call “a hunk,” thought Fenimore. When he asked Juan why he was an orderly, he said, “To help pay my tuition at the community college.”

“Are you planning to be a doctor?”

He laughed. “No way. A lawyer. But this was the only job I could get.”

“Well, law and medicine are closely intertwined these days,” Fenimore said with a touch of bitterness. He thanked the young man and left.

Now all he needed was a positive identification. He glanced at his watch. In a few hours the cardiology meeting would take place in the Hirst Auditorium, as it had a week ago Saturday.
If only Burton attends,
Fenimore thought. He decided to call the doctor's office and see if he could find out anything.

“May I speak to Dr. Burton?”

“I'm sorry, he's left for the day.” The receptionist didn't sound very sorry.

“Did he go to Philadelphia?” He risked an impertinent question.

“I really couldn't say.” Huffy, stuffy.

“Thanks.” He hung up.

He decided to proceed on the assumption that Burton
would
attend.

Fenimore called Jennifer. “Could you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Sure.”

“No trips to South Jersey?” He tried to sound nonchalant.

“Roaring Wings is at a powwow this weekend. He asked me to go, but I had to help Dad in the shop.”

“I'll meet you at the Four Seasons at six.”

“How posh!”

“Nothing but the best, my dear. By the way, there'll be another guest.”

“Oh?”

“Burton.”

“Oh!”

“Sorry, but there's method to my madness.”

“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't,” Jennifer corrected him.

“Well, yes, that too.”

At ten minutes of two, Fenimore took a seat at the back of the Hirst Auditorium. Pretending to be engrossed in the latest
JAMA,
his heart beat a rapid tattoo in his chest. The hall was nearly filled and the head of the cardiology department was about to introduce the guest speaker.
Burton isn't coming,
Fenimore decided.

Someone slipped into the seat beside him. Fenimore looked up. Burton gave him a hesitant smile.
Still embarrassed about that fire,
Fenimore thought. He smiled back.

This time the lecture was actually on a topic of interest to Fenimore, and it was blissfully short. When it ended, he turned to Burton and took the plunge.

“I was hoping you'd be here. How would you like to join Jen and me for dinner tonight?” Before Burton could refuse, Fenimore, knowing his expensive tastes, added quickly, “We have a reservation at the Four Seasons and would be very pleased if you could join us. It's our way of saying we have no hard feelings about last night.”

The doctor accepted eagerly.

“Fine. I have to stop by the CCU before we leave, but I won't be long.”

On the way to the CCU, Fenimore asked about the lodge. “Was it badly damaged?”

“No. They caught it in time. It seems some damn bird built a nest in the chimney and blocked it up. I hired a chimney sweep to clean it out good and proper.”

When they reached the CCU, Fenimore said, “I'll be right back.” He ducked inside. He returned a minute later, followed by Ms. Rochester. The nurse glanced at Burton and continued down the corridor to the rest room.

Fenimore checked his watch. “We have a couple of hours to kill before dinner. How about a walk by the river?”

“Sounds good to me.” Burton was in a fine mood, amenable to anything Fenimore suggested. Fenimore, on the other hand, was
nervous and irritable. It was all he could do to hold up his end of the conversation. At the first phone booth they came to, he excused himself to Burton. “I have to check on a patient.”

“You don't have a cell?” Burton was surprised.

“Left it home,” Fenimore lied and pulled the door closed, leaving Burton outside. He dialed the CCU.

“Wachovia Bank.”

He was so nervous he had dialed the wrong number. On the second try he got it right. He asked to speak to Ms. Rochester. When she came on the line, Fenimore identified himself and held his breath.

“That was the guy,” she said. And there was no trace of doubt in her voice.

Fenimore's knees sagged. “Th . . . thanks,” he stuttered.

After she hung up, he continued to hold the receiver, pretending to talk, giving himself time to recover. He stared at the back of the nondescript, middle-aged man, patiently waiting outside. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. Doctors were trained to save lives, not destroy them. How could he . . . ? Such a young man . . . ? Images of Chuck rose before him—in his shell, rowing toward the finish line; at his mother's dinner table, quiet and unobtrusive; seated next to him in the car, fiercely defending his philosophy:
“To be the best I can be!”

Fenimore swallowed hard and squeezed the receiver as if it were a life support.
How could he sit across from this man and eat dinner?

Burton glanced at the booth, wondering what was keeping him.

He could call Rafferty, of course. Tell him what he'd found out. But he wasn't sure he had enough evidence for a conviction.
What he needed was a confession.
Girding himself, Fenimore replaced the receiver and stepped out.

“No emergency, I hope?” Burton said.

“No. Everything's under control. Let's go for that walk.”

The next two hours were the longest Fenimore had ever endured.
He had no memory of where they walked or what they talked about. As they walked, he periodically felt cold and then broke into a sweat. He would momentarily forget his newfound knowledge, only to suddenly remember,
I'm chatting with a killer!

J
ennifer was waiting in the hotel lobby. Fenimore almost didn't recognize her. She was dressed in an elegant black silk sheath, accented with silver and turquoise jewelry. Burton was impressed too. He took her arm and, over cocktails, directed all his conversation to her. He didn't even notice when Fenimore excused himself to make a phone call. But Jennifer did. She cast him a wary look as he left.

He called Charlie. He wasn't sure how to break the news about Burton, but he had to find out what the doctor's motive was, and the only person who could help with that was Charlie. He was sure it had something to do with those false reports in Chuck's file.

“Charlie?”

“Andy.” They were back on speaking terms, ever since Fenimore had come to Caroline's rescue.

“I'm sorry to bother you at dinnertime.”

“I'm not eating much these days. I just came back from the hospital.”

“How is Caroline?”

“Better. You helped her, Andy. She told me about the potassium.”
His tone altered, becoming tense with suppressed anger. “Do you have any leads?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“What?” The question was like a branch snapping.

“Not ‘what.' Who.”

“Who, then.”

“Burton.”

The line was deadly quiet. Finally,
“That can't be.”

“He posed as an orderly when Chuck was in the CCU. I got a positive identification from the head nurse this afternoon.”

“She saw him do it?”

“No, but she saw him in the CCU, dressed like an orderly. He was ‘checking bedpans,' he said.”

Silence.

“Now I'm looking for a motive. I thought you might be able to help.”

More silence.

“Charlie?”

When Charlie spoke, his voice was flat, completely without expression. “Dan Burton and I have been friends since college. He's our family doctor. We've gone hunting every fall since I can remember. He taught Chuck to hunt. . . .”

“I know, Charlie, but—”

“You're telling me he killed my son?”

“It looks that way.”

“Where is he?”

“He's here with Jen and me. We're having dinner at the Four Seasons.”

“You're what?”

“It's a long story. I had to trick him into going to the CCU with me so the nurse could identify him. The only way I could do that was to ask him for dinner.”

“I'm coming down.”

“No. Don't do that, Charlie. He's a cool customer. We don't want to get his wind up until we have all the evidence.”

“I'm coming.”

“But you won't get here in time for dinner, and—”

“I'll get there in time for dessert.”

“Charlie—”

He hung up.