The Oath (33 page)

“Then why do the kids get shot?”

“He’s afraid he’s woken somebody up. Either that or the kids knew he was here when they went to bed. Except the kids are asleep. The gunshots didn’t carry up. But it’s still too risky. So it’s Ian first, and he silences the gun with the pillow. Then the girls. How’s that sound?”

Hardy wasn’t going to talk to a witness with a cop there. He followed Langtry for a few blocks, then honked a goodbye and drove back to Markham’s street, where he pulled up, parked, got back out of his car, and knocked on Frank Husic’s door. The gentleman probably assumed, since he’d been next door with Langtry and his badge, that he, too, was a cop. Hardy let him think so.

Husic invited him in and offered him iced tea, which he accepted. They then went out the back door onto a well-constructed redwood deck. Hardy didn’t know when he’d last sat amidst such an explosion of well-tended flowers. Husic had planted them around the deck on the ground, in pots on the deck itself and now in late April they were blooming in profusion. But he’d left an open area in the center of the deck, and in that had placed a wrought-iron table, shaded by a large canvas umbrella. Here they sat in comfortable padded chairs.

From the transcripts he’d read, Hardy knew that Husic was a retired dentist, sixty-two years old. He had a ruddy complexion and cropped gray hair. Today he wore faded navy blue slacks, loafers with no socks, a shirt with a button-down collar, two buttons open at the neck. He came across as solicitous, friendly, intelligent. Hardy made a mental note that, should it come to that, Husic would make a terrific witness.

“Yes, I heard the shot,” he said. “It’s only a stone’s throw away over there. I already told this to the police, you know.”

Hardy did know this, but one of the frustrations of his discovery in this matter was the ineptness of some of Fisk’s and Bracco’s interrogations. He wondered if they’d ever heard of the relatively simple concept of asking witnesses where they’d been, what they’d seen or thought, and what they’d been doing at the time of a murder. This, he thought, was not high-concept police work. And Husic’s interrogation—just random chat about flowers and investments, almost nothing about the day of Markham’s death—had been one of the worst, he thought.

So he had a lot to fill in here. “I realize that,” he replied. “In fact, I’ve read a transcript of that interview, but I’ve got a slightly different approach. You just now said ‘shot.’ You only heard one? I thought I noticed you said ‘three’ somewhere.”

Husic sipped his drink thoughtfully, put it down carefully on the table. “They asked that, too, and I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer. I believe I told the other officers that I was in bed at the time, pretty tired after the day over at Carla’s. It was emotionally draining as hell over there, let me tell you. But if she needed me, I wanted to be available.” Lightly slapping his forehead, he made a face. “Which doesn’t answer what you asked me, does it? Sorry. You’re a dentist, you spend your whole life making conversation with people who can’t answer you. It affects your patterns of speech, and here I go again. All right. How many shots did I hear? Distinctly, only one.”

Hardy looked across the expanse of lawn to what he knew to be the Markhams’ kitchen. He realized they’d left the kitchen windows open when they’d gone.

“I thought it was a backfire or something. I mean, a gunshot is not your first thought in this neighborhood.”

“But you may have heard three of them?”

“Well, that’s funny, you know. None of them were really loud. In my memory it’s three, but when I go back there and try to hear them, it’s more like I heard one and remembered two. I’m not making sense, am I? What I mean is, the last one definitely was something—I sat up in bed—but the first two were almost as if I dreamed them, you know how that happens?”

“Sure.” Hardy nodded. The siren that turns out to be your alarm clock. But this, he thought, might possibly be the two shots that killed the girls—right there seventy feet away—then the last round through the open kitchen window, which would have been louder. “But you were in bed when you heard them? Do you remember what time it was?”

“Yes, exactly. It was ten forty-two on the clock by my bed. I remember being very frustrated. I don’t go to sleep easily since Meg passed—four years ago now—and if I wake up, that’s usually it for the night. I’m up. And last Tuesday, with all the strain, I came home from Carla’s and had a glass of wine, but barely dozed. Then with the gunshot….”

“You were awake the rest of the night?”

“Until three, anyway. Those are long hours, eleven to three.”

Hardy made a sympathetic noise. “I know them pretty well myself. So when did you finally determine that they were gunshots?”

“Oh, not until the next morning.” The memory bushwhacked him for a moment. “God, it’s just so awful.”

“You were close to them, the Markhams?”

He hesitated. “Well, Carla, I’d say so. Tim was a bit of a cold fish, at least to me.” Moving along to happier memories, his face came alive. “But Carla would come over and help with my garden here sometimes. We’d have coffee…some nice talks. I can’t believe…” He hung his head and shook it. When he looked back up, he smiled, but his eyes had a glassy quality.

Hardy let the silence extend another moment. Finally, he asked quietly, “So you didn’t go and explore the source of the noise when you heard it?”

“No. After a minute I got up and looked out the window, of course, but everything was still. Just so still.”

“Would you mind telling me what you saw, exactly?”

“Well, really nothing unusual at all. Carla’s house right there.” Husic seemed puzzled by the question. “Just her house.”

Not “their” house, Hardy noticed. Just “her.”

“But I knew people had been over and if they’d all gone home, I wasn’t going to bother her, not that night. Let her sleep, I thought.”

“So it was dark?”

Again, puzzlement. “Well…no. There were lights on in the kitchen and I remember over the front porch. And then the upstairs hall light was on.” He turned and pointed. “That’s that middle one, on the top.”

“And what did you do then?”

Husic blew out heavily. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hardy, but didn’t I already give you all this in my first statement?”

“Maybe not all of it, sir. Could we take five more minutes? I’d really appreciate it.”

Another sigh as Husic gave in. “I turned on Letterman. I thought if I could laugh, maybe I could get to sleep. But nothing was going to make me laugh that night. Not even Dave. I was still worried about Carla, couldn’t get her out of my mind, actually. What was she going to do now?” Absently, he reached for his drink and stirred the ice in it with his finger. “But I couldn’t do anything more that night, you know. I had to wait and let time…Anyway, I was still awake, so I came out here—see the little greenhouse back there?—and worked with my bonsais for an hour, maybe two. Then—by now it’s two o’clock, thereabouts—I saw the lights were out. So Carla had gone to sleep, at least I thought that at the time, and then suddenly I could, too.”

T
he first letter was dated nearly seven years ago.

 

Parnassus Medical Group

Embarcadero Center

San Francisco, California

Dear Dr. Kensing:

This letter will document the decisions mutually agreed to by you, the Parnassus Physicians’ Group, and the Parnassus Medical Group (collectively, the “Group”) pursuant to the disciplinary committee meeting held last week. You have admitted that at various times and in various locations since you commenced employment with the Group, you have taken unspecified quantities of morphine and Vicodin for your personal use. Additionally, you acknowledge that you are an alcoholic whose medical performance while in a diminished mental state due to alcohol consumption has on several occasions fallen below the standard of reasonable medical care.

The Group recognizes your considerable skills as a doctor and communicator and before the recent discoveries memorialized herein, considered you a valuable member of its community. Because of this consideration, after substantial discussion, and over the dissent of the Medical Director, the Group’s disciplinary committee decided at this time to issue only this formal letter of reprimand rather than terminate your employment and pursue possible criminal charges against you upon the following conditions: 1) you will immediately and forever desist from use of all alcohol and all narcotics, except those drugs that may from time to time be prescribed to you by another physician for legitimate medical reasons; 2) you will voluntarily submit to random urine sampling to determine the presence of drugs or alcohol in your system;3) you will immediately accept the recommendation of the substance abuse counselor and attend and cooperate with any programs recommended by the Group; 4) for the next calendar year, in addition to the regularly scheduled visits with your appointed counselor, you will
daily
attend a so-called 12-step program, approved by the Group, to address your problems with addiction and chemical dependency; 5) after the first year of such counseling, but for the remainder of your service time within the Group, you will attend such 12-step programs as the Group deems necessary, but in no event shall these be scheduled less frequently than once a week.

You freely acknowledge your culpability in these above matters, and further acknowledge that any breach of the points agreed to above will result in your immediate dismissal from the Group, without appeal, and may result in further criminal and civil proceedings, as may be appropriate.

Very truly yours,

Timothy G. Markham

 

 

Parnassus Medical Group

Embarcadero Center

San Francisco, California

Dear Dr. Kensing:

In view of the fraternal rather than militant approach that I’ve suggested the Group take in helping you deal with your problems over the past couple of years—and over some high-level objection, I might add—I’d like to personally request that you consider tempering your critical remarks, both to your colleagues and to the press, about our various internal policies regarding the drug formulary. I am not trying to muzzle you or interfere with your right to free speech in any way, but I believe you’re aware of the financial difficulties we’re encountering in many areas. We’d like to keep the Group solvent so that we can continue providing the best care we can to the greatest number of our subscribers. We’re not perfect, of course, but we are trying. If you have specific suggestions for improvement or disagreements with Group policy, I will be happy to discuss them with you at any time.

Sincerely,

Timothy G. Markham

 

 

Parnassus Medical Group

Embarcadero Center

San Francisco, California

Dear Dr. Kensing:

It has come to my attention that you intend to appear on the public affairs television program
Bay Area Beat
. Let me remind you that the several medical committees on which you sit with the Physicians’ Group have confidentiality arrangements with the Health Plan. I will interpret any breach of this confidentiality as grounds for dismissal. As a personal note, you are aware, I am sure, of the critical negotiations we are conducting with the city at this time. I find your public appearances and negative comments about some of the Group’s policies to be singularly ungrateful and morally unconscionable, particularly in light of the Group’s leniency and compassion toward you in other areas in the past.

Very truly yours,

Malachi Ross

Chief Medical Director and CFO

 

 

Parnassus Medical Group

Embarcadero Center San Francisco, California

Dear Dr. Kensing:

If you don’t want to prescribe Sinustop to your allergy patients, of course that is your prerogative and your medical decision. But it is a useful drug, and I have approved its inclusion on the formulary. Your continued efforts to undermine the Group’s profitability by questioning my decisions are inappropriate. I have been patient with you long enough on these matters. The next event will have disciplinary repercussions.

Malachi Ross

 

“Where did you get these?” Hardy asked Jeff Elliot. He flipped through the pages he held, maybe twenty more of them. They were at the counter at Carr’s, a nondescript and—due to the new Starbucks around the corner—possibly soon out-of-business coffee shop on Mission by the
Chronicle
building. “Especially this first one. Jesus.”

A twinkle shone in Elliot’s eyes. “As you know, Diz, I can never reveal a source.”

But Hardy didn’t have to think very hard to dredge it up. “Driscoll. Markham’s secretary.”

Elliot’s eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. Hardy knew he would rob Jeff blind at poker. “Why do you say that?”

“He’s come up a few times. He’s fired, right, and probably saw that coming in advance. So he e-mailed his files home in case he wanted some leverage for later. Or just simply to screw somebody for the pure joy of it.”

Elliot scratched at his beard. “Without either denying or admitting your guess as to my source, he’s a reporter’s dream. Vindictive, gossipy, craves attention. He probably gave me five hundred pages.”

“All on Kensing?”

“No, no.” Elliot laughed at Hardy’s panicked response. “No, as far as I can tell, on the whole world at Parnassus.”

“Does Marlene Ash know about them?”

“She’d be trying to get them if she did, although of course I couldn’t give her any of it, either. I did tell him, though—my source, I mean—that if he wanted to keep any kind of exclusive control over its use, he might want to download it onto disks and put it someplace special, where Marlene or Glitsky wouldn’t think to look for it.”

“And yet you’ve got it here.”

“I know.” Elliot grinned. “Sometimes I like my job.”

Hardy picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee. “Anybody could have just typed them, you know. They might not be authentic.”

“You’re right. Maybe they’re not. But somebody would have to type really fast to get all this since last week.”

Hardy accepted this. In fact, he had no doubt that the letters were genuine. They’d never be accepted as proof of anything in court—not without hard copies and signatures—but this wasn’t the law. This was journalism and Jeff could decide to accept them if his source was credible enough. “So what are you going to do with them?”

This was the crux and they both knew it. Jeff had called Hardy as a courtesy because Hardy was Kensing’s lawyer. In view of the intense interest in nearly everything to do with Parnassus since Markham’s death, Elliot told him that Kensing’s substance abuse problems constituted real news. “On the other hand,” he said, “the heat’s kind of gone up under the Loring thing. If there’s a serial killer at Portola, that’s going to trump Kensing every time. I don’t really want to run this, Diz—I like the good doctor and it would ruin his day—but if it turns out to be important, I won’t have a choice.”

“What could make it that important, Jeff?”

“How about if he was high when he was working on Markham in the ICU?”

Hardy had to admit, that would do it. “Has anybody said boo about that?”

“No. But I’ll tell you something. If my source actually read most of these pages and thinks about it enough, I predict it’s going to come up.”

Hardy shook his head, marveling at the capacity for simple meanness in some people. Eric Kensing was only one doctor out of two or three hundred at Parnassus, but he’d unfortunately crossed Driscoll. Perhaps more importantly, he committed the cardinal sin of dissing the boss, with whom Driscoll identified heavily.

But a fresh thought surfaced. Driscoll might have a far better reason to impugn the characters of Kensing or anybody else than wanting to punish them for real or imagined past slights. He might simply want to keep people from looking at him.

“What are you thinking?” Elliot had been watching him.

Hardy covered. “Nothing really, except whether you’re going to tell me anything about the other four hundred and ninety-five pages.”

“I haven’t gotten to them. I can only read so fast. The Kensing letters popped up pretty quick and I thought I owed you.”

“As well you did, so now if you do me another favor, I’ll owe you, right?”

Elliot considered, nodded. “Maybe. What?”

“If you hear some more rumors from your unnamed source about Kensing’s sobriety a week ago Tuesday, don’t run the story until you get it confirmed someplace else.”

“I don’t think the letters are rumors, Diz.”

“I didn’t say they were. But I’ve got something that isn’t a rumor, either. Maybe we could trade.”

When Hardy finally got back to his office at about 3:30, he was both gratified and depressed by the delivery of more discovery on the Markham case from the Hall of Justice. It was nice that Glitsky had moved into a more cooperative mode, but he could do without another six hours of tedious reading material. But he opened the box, pulled out its contents, and placed them in the center of the blotter on his desk. Glancing at his phone, he saw that he had two messages.