"Or Jordan Ivanic. He's in a position to pull strings-excuse the worn phrase."
"Jordan." Sam's lips pursed together. "No. He's a man devoid of all imagination. He does everything by the book."
"You don't like him?"
"Oh, he's one of those men who can't think on his own. He has to find a precedent, a procedure, but he's honest. We aren't the best team personality-wise but Jordan isn't a criminal."
"He has three speeding tickets in two years' time. Had to take a driver's course mandated by the state."
"That doesn't make him a criminal." Sam's patience was wearing thin.
"Did you know about the tickets?"
"No. Sheriff, why would I know? You're grasping at straws. You assume my hospital, and I do think of it as my hospital, is a hotbed of crime. You connect two murders which while heinous may not be connected. As for Larry Johnson being your spy, that still doesn't prove his murder's connected to the hospital. He may have had a secret life." Sam's eyes blazed.
"I see." Rick stared at his shoes for a moment, then looked up at Sam. "What about the hospital killing people through negligence?"
"I resent that!"
"It happens." Rick raised his voice. "It happens every day all over America. It has to have happened at your hospital, too."
"I won't discuss this without a lawyer." Sam's jaw hardened.
"Well, you just do that, Sam. You'd better hire a public-relations firm, too, because I won't rest until I find out everything, Sam, everything and that means just who the hell was killed at your hospital because some bozo forgot to read their chart, gave the wrong medicine, or the anesthesiologist screwed up. Shit happens even in Crozet Hospital!" Rick stood up, his face darkening. Coop stood up, too. "And I'll have your ass for interfering with a law-enforcement officer in the prosecution of his duties!"
Rick stormed out, leaving an angry Sam sitting in the library with his mouth hanging wide open.
Coop, wisely, slipped behind the wheel of the squad car before Rick could do it. She had no desire to peel out of the Mahanes' driveway, then careen down the road at eighty miles an hour. Rick drove fast anyway; angry, he flew.
He slammed the passenger door.
"Where to?"
"Goddamned Jordan Ivanic, that's where. Maybe that smart bastard will tell us something."
She headed toward the hospital, saying nothing because she knew the boss. The misery over Larry's death swamped him and this was his way of showing it. Then again, he had a good reason to be livid. Someone was killing people and making him look like a jerk.
"Boss, this is a tough case. Go easy on yourself."
"Shut up."
"Right."
"I'll nail Sam Mahanes. I will fry him. I will slice and dice him. You know patients have died from stupidity. It happens!"
"Yes, but Sam's job is to protect the reputation of the hospital. Covering up one or two mistakes is one thing, covering up a rash of them is something else-and Larry would have known, boss. Doctors may be able to keep secrets from patients and patient families but not from one another, not for long, anyway."
"Larry would have known." Rick lit a cigarette. "Coop, I'm stuck. Everywhere I turn there's a wall." He slammed his fist into the dash. "I know this is about the hospital. I know it!"
"Any one of our ideas could provoke someone to kill."
"You know what really worries me?" He turned his face to her. "What if it's something else? What if it's something we can't imagine?"
No sooner had Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper pulled out of the driveway than Sam Mahanes made a beeline to his shop, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed Tussie Logan.
"Hello."
"Tussie."
"Oh, hello." Her voice softened.
"I'm glad you're home. Have you heard the terrible news about Larry Johnson?"
"No."
"He was found shot at Twisted Creek Stables."
"Larry Johnson." She couldn't believe it.
"Listen, Tussie, Sheriff Shaw and that tall deputy of his are going to be all over the hospital. We're going to have to cool it for a while."
A long pause followed. "I understand."
28
The streets, alleys, and byways leading to the Lutheran Church were parked solid. The funeral service slated to start at eleven A.M. brought out all of Crozet, much of Albemarle County, plus the friends and family flying in from places Virginians often forgot, like Oklahoma.
At quarter to eleven some people were frantically trying to find places to park. Sheriff Shaw figured this would happen. He instructed the two officer escorts for the funeral cortege to ignore double-parking and parking in a No Parking zone. He did not waive the rules on parking by a fire hydrant.
Businesses opened their parking lots to everyone. The crush of people was so great that over two hundred had to file into the offices and hallways of the church, the church itself being full. At eleven there were still over seventy-five people standing outside, and the day turned crisp, clear, and cold.
The Reverend Herbert C. Jones, anticipating this, hung up speakers outside as well as in the hallways. Yesterday had been Ash Wednesday, so he wore his Lenten vestments.
Herb had known Larry all his life. He pondered over his eulogy, pondered over the life of a good man being snuffed out so violently. As a man of God he accepted the will of God but as a friend, a human of great feeling, he couldn't help but question.
The upper-management staff of Crozet Hospital filled the left-hand, front side of the church. Behind Sam Mahanes, Jordan Ivanic, Dr. Bruce Buxton, and others were those support people who worked with Larry over the years, Tussie Logan, other nurses, secretaries, people who had learned to love him because he valued them. Larry hadn't had an ounce of snobbery in his soul.
On the right-hand side of the church, at the front, sat distant relatives, nephews and nieces and their children. Larry's brother, a lawyer who had moved to Norman, Oklahoma, after World War II, was there. Handsome people, the Johnsons shared many of Larry's qualities: down-to-earth, respectful, hardworking. One great-nephew in particular looked much like Larry himself at twenty-five.
When Mim Sanburne saw this young man she burst into tears. Both Jim and Little Mim put their arms around her, but this reminder in the flesh, this genetic recall, tore at her heart. Larry was irretrievably gone and with him, Mim's youth and passion.
Harry, Susan, and Miranda sat together near the front on the right-hand side of the church. All three women wore hats, as was proper. In Harry's case the hat also served to cover the stitches.
The walnut casket, closed, sat at the nave, down below the altar. The scent of the massed floral arrangements overpowered those in the front. For those in the rear the sweet odors brought hopes of the not-too-distant spring, an exquisite season in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The murmur of voices hushed when Herb opened the door behind the lectern. Two acolytes were already seated, one by the lectern, the other by the pulpit. When Herb entered, the congregation stood. He walked to the center, held his hands up, and the congregation was seated.
As the service for the dead progressed, those who knew the good reverend felt the force of his deep voice, felt the genuine emotion. By the time he read his sermon, liberally sprinkled with pawprints from his cats, people knew this was the greatest sermon Herb had ever given.
He eschewed the usual easy words about the deceased being with the angels. He spoke of a life well lived, of a life spent in service to others, of a life devoted to easing pain, to healing, to friendship. He spoke of foxhunting and fly-fishing, Larry's favorite pastimes. He recalled his record in the Navy, his youthful practice, his rapport with people. He argued with God, Herb did.
"Lord, why did you take Thy faithful servant when we have such need of him here on earth?" He read Psalm 102. "'Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to Thee! Do not hide thy face from me in the day of my distress! Incline thy ear to me; answer me speedily in the day when I call! For my days pass away like smoke and my bones burn like a furnace. My heart is smitten like grass, and withered; I forget to eat my bread.'"