“Are you asking me whether I think he could have taken his own life? No. In addition to everything else, I believe his religious beliefs proscribe that rather severely.” He glanced at a slim silver watch around his wrist, reminding me my audience was limited.
“Who is he closest to?”
“In the department? Me, I suppose.”
“No other close friends?”
“We work very long hours here, Mr. Geller. Very long. To be frank, I don’t know what my residents or fellows do outside these walls. I couldn’t tell you which of them is married or has kids. If that’s a failing, I can live with it comfortably. Look, there is a roomful of patients waiting to see me.”
“Can you think of anywhere David might go if he were in trouble?”
“Home to Canada?”
“No. His passport is still here and no one at home has heard from him.”
“Then there’s nowhere else I can think of.”
“Last thing. He wasn’t allowed to moonlight or anything, right?”
“No, his visa doesn’t allow it. Which is too bad, of course. What we pay residents and fellows is practically criminal.”
“We found five thousand dollars in cash in his room. Any idea where that could have come from?”
For a moment, Stayner looked as sallow as one of his patients. He gulped as though he’d taken a large drink. “Five thousand? David?”
“Hidden in his closet. And we think he gave another five to the family of another man who is also missing.”
He crossed his arms and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I have no idea,” he said. “I’m-I’m frankly stunned.”
“I can see that.”
He looked more than stunned. He looked afraid. “Where would David get that kind of money?” Stayner asked, more interested in the money than in the other missing man. If he wasn’t going to bring it up, neither was I. Yet.
“Did he ever say anything to you about poker?”
“Not that I recall. I didn’t know he played.”
“He did online. Could that account for the money?”
“That seems kind of fantastic to me but who knows? It might be as reasonable as any other explanation.”
Still ignoring any mention of the other man. “You’re chair of the ethics committee, aren’t you?”
“Bioethics, yes. What does that have to do with it?”
“Could David have done something unethical to get that money?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“One of your patients was just telling me how hard it is to get a kidney. Could David have taken money to move someone up the list?”
“First of all, he wouldn’t have a say in that. And he wouldn’t do anything unethical, it’s not in him.”
“Would you?”
“Would I what?” he snapped. “Do something unethical?”
“No. Have a say in who gets on the list.”
“Of course not. No doctor does, and I resent the question. The New England Organ Bank handles all procurement and notifies patients based on strict criteria.”
“What criteria?”
“I’m not going to do your research for you. Look it up on your own time.” His demeanour had slipped a couple of notches, from cool and self-absorbed to snappy. “Now good luck, Mr. Geller. Please let me know if you find out anything.” He walked back behind his desk. Got behind his chair too.
“And you’ll do the same?” I laid a business card on his desktop. He moved it to one side with his fingertips. Then he phoned out to his receptionist and asked her to send in his next patient.
“One last thing,” I said. I took a folded flyer out of my jacket pocket and handed it to him. “Do I have your permission to put this up by the elevator?”
He unfolded it and was saying, “Yes, yes,” when he actually looked at it. I watched his reaction as he saw Harinder Patel’s face and walked out thinking it was a good thing he didn’t play poker.
CHAPTER 9
Jenn and I had a late lunch at the hotel coffee shop. I told her about my visit to Stayner and the question of whether David could have taken money to get someone onto, or higher up on, a donor waiting list.
“But Stayner says he couldn’t have,” she said.
“Right. Even he can’t, he says.”
“Are we going to take his word for it?”
“Not a chance.”
“You think he knew more than he was letting on.”
“Something about the money,” I said. “That’s when he flinched, and this is not a man who lets go easily.”
She agreed to stay behind at the hotel and work the phones, to try to get confirmation from the New England Organ Bank about its protocols and track down more people David Fine had spoken to in the days before he went missing. I drove back to Summit Avenue without getting lost and parked near the house he shared with Sheldon. There were a lot of other houses to canvass-too many for one night-so I walked to the plateau of the hill where a dozen or so people stood or sat in the park known as the Corey Hill Outlook. With the trees bare of foliage, there was a striking view of some of downtown’s taller buildings, lit up against the dark spring sky. Three people sat on a curved stone bench, watching the first evening stars come out. A young boy stood on a large stone sundial laid into the grass, while his father explained how it would work if the sun was out.
I started with the people on the bench, showing them David’s picture, asking if they remembered seeing him in the area two weeks ago, or at any time. They held the photo closer to the lights that shined down from tall iron stands, but eventually shook their heads and said sorry. I went over to the sundial; standing next to it, I could see a small stone laid in the grass above the twelve like a grave marker, telling how to find the time in different seasons. The twelve had once been gold. Now the one was completely stripped down to grey and the two had only splotches of gilt left. The father told me he didn’t recognize David, either. “Who was that?” the boy asked as I walked away. “It doesn’t matter,” the father said.
A young couple holding hands, leaning into each other at the edge of the grass, thought David looked vaguely familiar but couldn’t place him at any specific time or place.
I tried a cyclist stretching his calves out against a tree, his bike lying on its side beside him. He took one look at the photo and scowled. “The rabbit,” he said.
“You recognize him?”
“Damn right I do.”
He was in his early twenties, tall and lean, dressed in Lycra pants and a long-sleeved shirt that was stained with sweat. Despite the low light of dusk I could see deep shadowed bruises under both eyes and a healing cut on the bridge of his nose.
“Why’d you call him a rabbit?” I asked.
“Because he ran like one.”
My heart started to race a little, the way it does when I know I’ve found something. “From what?”
He pointed to the bruises on his face. Pulled up his sleeves to show angry scrapes on both elbows. “I ride this hill every day, unless it snows,” he said. “Up one side and down the other, then back again. I’m trying out for Boston College track next fall.”
“When did you see him?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“Could it have been a Thursday?”
“Probably was. That Wednesday it snowed, I think, and Friday a bunch of us went to New Hampshire for the weekend.”
“So what happened?”
“I’m coming up the hill, right? The steepest part back there. Killing my lungs, man. I can barely breathe. Then the road starts to straighten out and I reach back for a little extra, get the legs pumping. I hit the plateau and I pick up a little speed. I love to fly down the other side. You feel the wind in your face, drying the sweat-it’s nirvana, man. So here I come, picking up speed, and just as I’m getting ready to roll this asshole throws the door of his van open without looking.”
“Him?” I asked, pointing to David’s picture.
“No, another asshole. I slam into the door, I go ass over handlebars and do a face plant in the street.”
“Where was this man?”
“On the sidewalk. Him and another guy who came out the passenger side. The sliding door.”