“I can e-mail JPEGs to you, if you want them,” said Ben.
“That would be great, thanks.”
“I need to get back,” said Mrs. Laramore, and she disappeared into Celeste’s room. Ben led Jack down the hallway toward the secured entrance and pushed the button on the wall to open the doors.
“I’ll talk this out with my wife. And I’ll get you those photos.”
“Thanks, please do that.”
Jack exited the ICU, and the doors closed automatically behind him. He continued to the elevator, confident that Mrs. Laramore could be talked into testifying. His mind was more focused on those photographs. Flashes of brilliance sometimes didn’t seem so brilliant upon second look, but he was beyond certain that his more careful review of the photos, once e-mailed to him, would confirm his initial impression:
With each photo since high school-with the gradual passage of time, starting roughly with the death of Sydney’s daughter-Celeste Laramore looked more and more like Sydney Bennett.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The funeral home was open until ten o’clock. At 9:55 P.M., Jack pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. That was as far as he could go. He was frozen behind the wheel, shrouded in darkness, unable to open the door.
It had been Jack’s intention to stay away from any memorial service for Rene. After his meeting with the Laramores, however, he’d spotted the notice posted on the bulletin board in the hospital lobby: REMEMBERING RENE FENNING, MD, LINCOLN FUNERAL HOME, FRIDAY, 6 P.M. TO 10 P.M. The Jackson Memorial family had lost one of its own. Jack wasn’t part of that family, and Rene’s boyfriend had nearly broken every bone in his right fist trying to make Jack understand that he was most unwelcome. Jack couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. The sight of Rene’s body on a slab in the morgue had made Jack want to punch himself in the face. Twice. Once for Rene’s having ended up as “someone you love.” A second time for the hurt he’d caused everyone else who had ever loved her.
It was a typical humid summer night, and the stale air inside the closed car changed from warm to stifling in a hurry. Rolling down the window to cool things down would have been pure procrastination. Jack had to do what he’d come to do-or he needed to leave. There was always a spare necktie in his console, and with the help of the rearview mirror he tied a quick double Windsor. A shave wouldn’t have hurt, but the best he could do was run a comb through his hair. He drew a breath, clutched his keys, and stepped out of the car.
You can do this.
Jack’s heels clicked on the asphalt as he crossed the parking lot. Several visitors passed him on their way out of the funeral home, then a few more. One older woman was sobbing and dabbing away tears. Others appeared numb, or at the very least at a loss for words. Jack looked away, only to catch sight of the black hearse parked beneath the porte cochere alongside the building. The thought of Rene heading to the cemetery in the morning was almost incomprehensible. A random memory came to him of the way Rene had surprised him one weekend and shown up at his front door direct from Abidjan-in her words, “a sex-starved expat willing to traverse the globe in search of quality horizontal time.” It was a nice combination, someone who could crack you up and turn you on at the same time. It all left a knot in his stomach. He walked faster to the door, and on his way inside, a woman at the front step seemed to recognize him but said nothing. Jack tried not to make eye contact with her or anyone else, fearful that he might be asked to leave.
There was a small gathering of guests at the sign-in register in the lobby. Jack decided that he wouldn’t sign. Several other clusters of quiet conversation dotted the room. Bouquets of white roses and chrysanthemums adorned antique tables. It was all very subdued and traditional, except for the life-size photographs of Rene that flanked the entrance door to the parlor where she lay. On the left was a younger and dust-covered Rene, the volunteer pediatrician whom Jack had met in western Africa. Only a handful of people knew that period of her life. On the right was Dr. Fenning, a more current shot that was recognizable to all who had come to grieve.
“Swyteck?”
Jack turned. It was Rene’s boyfriend.
“I asked you not to come,” said Dr. Ross.
The perfect response was trapped somewhere between his brain and his tongue, but damned if Jack could get it out. “I didn’t come to make a scene,” said Jack, “and it wasn’t my intention to go inside and see Rene without your blessing.”
“Walk with me for a minute.”
Dr. Ross started toward the main entrance, and Jack followed. He led Jack all the way outside and across the driveway, to a patch of grass that was just beyond a stand of bushy palm trees in front of the funeral home. There were crushed cigarettes on the ground, and the night air still hinted at a recent smoke.
“I can’t say that I was going to invite you,” said Dr. Ross, “but in a way I’m glad you came. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Jack braced himself.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor said. “I’m not going to hit you.”
“That’s a step forward.”
It was too dark to tell if the doctor had cracked a semblance of a smile, but it would have been a sad one. “When we lost Rene, she was on her way to meet you.”
“Yes, unfortunately, that’s true.”
“Do you have any idea what she was going to tell you?”
Jack wasn’t sure how forthcoming he could be. “It was Rene who convinced me I should represent the Laramore family in their lawsuit against BNN. Thursday’s meeting was a follow-up on that, but I don’t know what it was about specifically.”
Ross looked away, then back. “Well, I do know what she was going to tell you. Specifically.”
“How?”
“We talked the night before she died. She told me what she’d found.”
“What did she tell you?”
He started to answer, then stopped. “Did you see the posting on Celeste Laramore’s Facebook?”
It seemed like a change of subject, but Jack went along. “Yes, I saw. But I should tell you, those were posted in violation of a court order. I can’t discuss what they say.”
“That’s fine. You have your orders. But the reality is that those postings were up long enough to leak all over the Internet. And they’re all over the hospital, too. Surely you can appreciate the interest in a claim that the media interfered with the transmission of data from the ambulance to the ER.”
“It was certainly of interest to Rene,” said Jack.
“Which brings me back to my original point,” said Dr. Ross. “One of those Facebook postings said something to the effect that a doctor at Jackson had reviewed the data and confirmed that if the transmission had gone through, doctors in the ER would have recognized that Celeste had a heart defect and started treatment that could have stopped her from slipping into a coma.”
“I know what you’re talking about,” said Jack. “But like I said, I can’t discuss that.”
“I’m not asking you to discuss it. I just want you to hear what I’m saying. The unnamed doctor who reviewed the data: that was Rene.”
Jack was surprised-but he wasn’t. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Rene reviewed that data. She drew that conclusion. As I said, she was on her way to tell you that when she was murdered.”
“That couldn’t have been an easy decision.”
“It was quite courageous, if you ask me.” Dr. Ross waited for a couple of visitors to pass on the way to their car, then continued. “Rene and I were up half the night before your meeting, talking about it. She wasn’t sure if telling you was the right thing to do or not. We finally agreed she should.”
It gave Jack even more respect for Rene, but he couldn’t help wishing she’d come out the other way. “Did she talk to anyone else about it?”