Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 03 - Trick Question (8 page)

“Please do,” Tubby called to his back.

* * *

Tubby paced around his office. Shocking that there should be so much duplicity and pain in such a beautiful city. Even in the middle of winter, when those ay-yuppers in Vermont were tunneling through the snow to get to their cows, green trees lined the avenues of New Orleans. Gulf breezes brought the fragrance of marsh grasses and satsuma trees. Mardi Gras balls and King Cake parties had begun. Seagulls sailed serenely over the riverbanks, rich with supper. If people could not live in peace here, where could they?

Tubby was daydreaming himself into the governor’s mansion when the phone rang.

The invitation to dinner was quite unexpected.

“I’d like you to get to know him,” Mattie explained.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Tubby said. “Don’t forget I actually know Byron already, since I sued him and took his deposition twice. I don’t really think he wants to have dinner with me.”

“Of course he does,” Mattie insisted. “It might be a little awkward, but I feel the need somehow to be able to sit down like adults and be sociable. You could bring some lady friend as your guest. It would be a foursome.”

“Mattie. I don’t want to do this. I’m not seeing anybody seriously right now. It would be too strange.”

“Do it for me, Tubby. It’s crazy, I know, but I can’t seem to let myself be completely free with Byron until I somehow have your blessing. It would help me make a break.”

“Jesus, Mattie, you have my blessing. Please be free.” He thought he was going to gag.

“Tubby, it’s a simple request.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Thank you,” she gushed. “We’ll go to the Steak Knife up in Lakeview. It will all be very nice and civilized. You bring some nice woman. I know you must know one.”

Was that a barb?

“Okay,” he said.

“A week from Friday night?”

“No.”

“Sunday night.”

“Okay.”

“You’re a sweet man.”

Good God.

“Mattie, have you talked to Debbie lately?”

“You mean about her being pregnant?” she replied bluntly.

“Yes. I just didn’t know if she had told you yet.”

“Of course she told me. I’m her mother.”

“What do you think?”

“I like Marcos a lot. I hope they have the baby.”

“She’s so young.”

“You may be forgetting how young we were when we got married.”

“I just hate to see her forced into growing up so fast.”

“We all make our choices. And the circumstances were about the same for you and me, if you recall.”

“Were we really so stupid?”

“I think they call it innocent. And you’ve always been the innocent one, Tubby. You don’t ever know what’s happening unless it hits you right in the face.”

What was that supposed to mean?

The sidewalk outside of the New Orleans State University Medical School was, as they say in south Louisiana, hot faché. People waiting for the bus grabbed at bits of shade in desperation – wedging themselves into the shadows cast by a stop sign or a telephone pole – and tried to stand motionless with minimal mental activity. Praline vendors, panhandlers, doctors and nurses in white coats, all floated languidly, in a slow glide, through the bright shimmering air. But inside the hospital the weather was cold, brisk, and clean. Say what you will about the great American health-care crisis, Tubby reflected as he took great gulps of air-conditioning, there was an awful lot of money moving through the hospital system.

An information lady dressed in a pink apron told him which colored line to follow to reach the Moskowitz Memorial Laboratory. It was not a short hike, on the narrow yellow trail, and the number of people in the halls thinned out considerably as he penetrated further into the healing maze.

At last the line disappeared under a set of swinging doors with an imposing sign on them that warned all but authorized personnel to go away.

Tubby forged ahead. The hallway continued, and he passed side doors to what he thought must be laboratories. All were closed, and cartoons from magazines or homemade curtains covered up the glass observation panels. At a point where the hallway made a T, there was a desk and a chair and a sign that said SECURITY. No one was sitting at the desk, and Tubby searched the walls vainly for some clue to the whereabouts of Laboratory 3, which was where Cherrylynn had said he was to meet Dr. Swincter at noon.

A woman wearing a green shirt and baggy pants, with puffs of paper around her hair and shoes, shuffled around the corner.

“Can you tell me where Dr. Swincter’s lab is?”

“At the end of the hall, the door on the right,” she told him, without turning her head or slowing down.

The door to Lab 3 also had a sign on it that read: NO ADMITTANCE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. There was a window maybe ten inches square at eye level, but it was covered from the inside with a piece of yellowing notebook paper.

It slid open suddenly and a slim man wearing a tan suit, looking self-assured and untroubled, stepped into the hall.

“Excuse me,” “Pardon me,” he and Tubby mumbled to each other while they did a clumsy dance; then the man walked swiftly away, leaving a breeze of cologne.

Purple Musk? Tubby guessed, remembering his daughters’ birthday gifts, intended to improve him, neglected on his dresser at home.

He pushed the shiny handle tentatively and peeked around the edge of the door. He saw white walls, stacks of gray metal cages, and long counters topped with bright stainless steel. At the center counter, on a stool, a short man sat with his head in his hands.

“Pardon me,” Tubby called, and stepped in through the doorway.

The man looked startled, as if not many people came in here, and Tubby saw a look of irritation cross a strained and very businesslike face.

“Yes?” the man said, raising one bushy black eyebrow in a manner designed to dismiss orderlies and civilians.

“Excuse me,” Tubby said. “I’m looking for Dr. Swincter.”

“That’s me,” the doctor said, and patted the pockets of his lab coat.

“Hi, I’m Tubby Dubonnet. You talked to my secretary.”

“Oh, yes,” the doctor said resentfully. “I have so little time…” he began, but he was distracted when the door behind him whooshed open again. A dark-haired woman, also wearing the standard white uniform of the hospital officer corps, entered the lab.

“Excuse me, Trina,” Swincter said. “This man is the lawyer for the fellow who killed Whitney. I’ll be a little while.”

She looked Tubby over carefully as he offered her his hand.

“Trina Tessier,” she said, and gave his fingers a quick touch. “Come to my office when you’re finished,” she told Swincter, and was on her way out the door. A bit of red skirt flew below her white coat, and there was a quick flash of pale ankle.

Tubby watched Swincter take in the view.

“Thanks for seeing me,” he said, breaking the doctor’s reverie.

“Oh, sure. I guess you’re trying to get Cletus off.”

“Well, I’m trying to find out what happened. Do you know Cletus well?”

“Seen him around.” Dr. Swincter had a funny way of talking, like scissors neatly trimmed every word. And yet his soft lips barely moved. But his blue eyes jumped around the room. Tubby would have judged him to be more than forty-five years old had he not known him to be about a decade younger.

“And of course you knew Dr. Valentine.”

“He and I worked together for almost three years.”

“I don’t know very much about what kind of work Dr. Valentine did. Some sort of research on disease prevention?”

Dr. Swincter looked like he was being confronted with a soda-slurping seven-year-old on a field trip.

“A little more complicated than that, actually. It has to do with isolating viruses or toxins, and developing medicines or antidotes to treat them.”

“How is the research funded?”

“Why is that any of your business?”

“Gosh, Doctor, I don’t know. I’ve got a man charged with murder who may be executed with an injection of an extremely deadly toxin unless I can cast doubt on his guilt. I’m starting with a clean slate – just looking for information. Have you got any reason to believe that Cletus Busters did it and that I’m just wasting my time?”

“The police arrested him, didn’t they?”

“So what?”

“He stole drugs from the hospital. He was unbalanced. He tampered with our experiments.”

“You mean he played with the mice.” Tubby nodded at the wall of cages from which small rustling and scratching noises came.

“Yeah, he played with the mice, and probably touched them, exposing them to uncontrolled bacteria. He possibly fed them, jeopardizing the entire sample in some experiments and months of work.”

“But why would he kill Dr. Valentine?”

“Maybe because he’s a deranged, violent man. I don’t know.”

“Would you grant the possibility that someone else might have done it?”

“I suppose so, but I think it unlikely.”

“Okay, but you’re a scientist and you know that the truth often lies in unlikely places. Sometimes you find it by expanding your search.”

“All right, Mr. Lawyer. Our funding comes from many sources. The National Institutes of Health, pharmaceutical companies, some private foundations, some from the hospital itself.”

“What was Dr. Valentine working on at the time of his death?”

“Several things, like all of us. We were working together on a long-term research project involving the outbreak of a new stomach-eating bacterium that struck several blackjack dealers in Las Vegas about a year ago and then disappeared. We’re also testing a viral inhibitor that shows some promise in the treatment of AIDS. And, of course, we always have a couple of check-ins.”

“Check-ins?”

“Term of art. People dead and the coroner can’t figure out why. They’re sent here to see if we can point the pin to the cause of death. Never know, we might find a new bubonic plague.” He looked hopeful.

“Was Dr. Valentine looking at any check-ins at the time of his death?”

Yep.

“Can you tell me about them?”

“In a general sense, sure. We had two, I think, when Whitney was here. A woman who passed out driving on Highway 11 with predictable results and a Texas turista who flew in on Taco Airlines and died in a taxicab on her way from the airport to Bourbon Street.”

“What was strange about those deaths?”

“The local woman was in the peak of health, fifty-two years old, a young grandmother. No reason for her heart to stop. She had systemic palpable petechial rash covering her extremities. The tourist had erythematous bullae, red blisters full of pus, to you, on her chest and stomach. The medical examiner didn’t want to touch her, even with gloves on. Other than that, what can I say? They were both female, both were having their periods, and they both died for an unknown reason. That’s our clientele.”

“Sounds interesting. What happened to all of his work?”

“I’ve taken it over as best I can. Dr. Tessier, whom you just met, is covering some of it. We have been interviewing some good people for the vacancy Dr. Valentine left.”

“Dr. Valentine also taught at the medical school?”

“Oh, yes, we all teach.”

“What were his subjects?”

“Forensics and virology.”

“How many students did he teach?”

“About twenty in each course. They are advanced seminars.”

“Was he a good teacher?”

“That’s not really relevant in medical school,” Swincter said curtly. “We expect students to learn what’s being taught. The teacher grades how well the students are doing their job.”

“Sounds pretty stressful.”

“That’s the point. I guess law school is like a kindergarten version of that.”

And you are a pompous butt-head, Tubby thought.

“Was Valentine well liked?” he asked.

“I suppose,” Dr. Swincter said, as if it mattered.

“Did you know Dr. Valentine’s wife?”

“Sure. Ruby. She’s a survivor type. Won’t stay down long.”

“Were they happily married?”

“Can’t say as I know. Look, I’ve got a class in just about three minutes.”

“Okay. But as a scientist, can you think of any avenue of inquiry I’m overlooking?”

Swincter seemed intrigued. He smiled slightly, as if he was about to say something, but then he compressed his pink lips and said, “Nope.”

“Thanks anyway,” Tubby said. “You may see me or my people poking around over the next few days. Have you been asked to testify for the prosecution?”

The doctor frowned. “Yes, I have, though it will undoubtedly be very inconvenient.”

“What did they ask you to testify about?”

“Catching your client playing with the mice, as you say.

“Is that what they are, in these cages?”

“Yes, come on, I’ll show you.”

He led Tubby across the lab to where shoebox-sized cages stacked a dozen high ran the length of a wall. Each had a plastic label on the door, and inside were white, furry creatures. Some you’d call mice, some rats, and some were hamsters or rabbits. The sides of the gray metal cages were solid so they couldn’t see each other, but tiny pink noses wiggled through the screens of many of the hutches. The occupants made little squeaks and fluttering noises.

“Here’s the farm,” Dr. Swincter said fondly, a shepherd looking over his tiny flock by night.

“What do you do with them?”

“Basically we infect them. Some we dissect, and others we cure. We’re a mean bunch of bastards, right?”

Tubby shrugged. He noticed the freezer cabinet across the room and studied it with fascination.

Dr. Swincter looked disappointed not to get more of a reaction.

“I thought Valentine found Cletus touching the animals. What exactly did you see?” Tubby asked.

“It was Valentine who caught him. He saw Cletus tampering with some white mice.”

“Tampering?”

“He was sitting right behind you, according to poor Whitney. On the counter. He had a mouse in each hand, and he was petting them with his thumbs.”

“How did that affect your experiment?”

“Well, for one thing, we didn’t know which mouse was which. So we had to guess what cages they came from. And naturally the whole experiment was suspect since we didn’t know how many others he might have been taking out and switching around. We had about forty subjects then.”