Returning to the car, I drove the rest of the way home thinking about pneumonia, respiratory therapy, and a baby boy lying still and gray in his crib. By the time I arrived, I was feeling short of breath.
I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, reviewed my chat with Cindy.
People must think I’m crazy... Sometimes I think I’m crazy.
Guilt? A veiled confession? Or just tantalizing me?
Waltzing.
She’d been totally cooperative until I’d suggested we leave the room.
The “overly caring” Munchausen mother? Or simply the reasonable anxiety of a woman who’s lost one child and suffered plenty with another?
I recalled the nervous surprise she’d shown when I told her of my plans for a home visit.
Something to hide? Or just surprise — a logical reaction — because doctors didn’t do house calls anymore?
Another risk factor: Her mother-figure, the nurse. A woman who came across, even in Cindy’s loving recollection, as something of a martinet.
A nurse who worked for a doctor but fought with him. Who disparaged physicians.
She’d guided Cindy into health care but away from nursing.
Ambivalence about doctors? About the health-care power structure? Preoccupation with sickness and treatment?
Had all that been communicated to Cindy at a young age?
Then there was the matter of her own illnesses — the flu and pneumonia that had disrupted her career plans.
Everything worked out for the best.
The blush, the yanking at her braid. The discharge was definitely a sensitive topic.
I got on the kitchen phone, obtained the 803 area code for South Carolina and dialed Information there. Fort Jackson turned out to be in Columbia. I wrote down the number and called it.
A drawling female voice answered. I asked for the base’s chief medical officer.
“You want the commander of the hospital?”
“Yes, please.”
“One moment.”
A second later: “Colonel Hedgeworth’s office.”
“This is Dr. Delaware, from Los Angeles, California. I’d like to speak with the colonel, please.”
“What was that name, sir?”
“Delaware.” I added my professional title and medical school affiliation.
“Colonel Hedgeworth is out of the office, sir. Would you care to speak with Major Dunlap?”
“That would be fine.”
“Please hold.”
Half a dozen beats, then another drawling voice. Male baritone: “Major Dunlap.”
“Major, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, from L.A.” I repeated my credentials.
“Uh-huh. What can I do for you, Doctor?”
“We’ve been doing some pilot research — contagion patterns of viral epidemics, influenza and pneumonia, specifically — in relatively closed environments such as prisons, private schools, and military bases. Contrasting it with control groups in the general population.”
“Epidemiological research?”
“We’re working out of the Pediatrics department. Still in the process of assembling a preliminary data base, and Fort Jackson came up as a possible target site.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. Long pause. “Have you got a research grant on this?”
“Not yet, just some preliminary seed money. Whether or not we apply for full funding depends on how the data base shapes up. If we do write a proposal it would be as a collaborative effort — the target sites, plus us. We’d carry all the overhead, would just need access to facts and figures.”
He chuckled. “We give you our stats and you put our names on any papers you write?”
“That would be part of it, but we’d always be open to scientific input.”
“What med school was that?”
I told him.
“Uh-huh.” Another laugh. “Well, I guess that would be pretty attractive, if I still cared about that kind of thing. But yeah, sure, I guess you can put our names down, for the time being — conditionally, no commitment. Got to check it with Colonel Hedgeworth, though, before I finalize anything.”
“When will he be back?”
He laughed again. “She’ll be back in a couple of days. Give me your number.”
I gave him my home exchange, saying, “That’s a private line, easier to reach.”
“And what was your name?”
“Delaware.”
“Like in the state?”
“Exactly.”
“And you’re with Pediatrics?”
“Yes,” I said. Technically true, but I hoped he wouldn’t delve too deeply and find out I had a clinical appointment but hadn’t lectured in years.
“Fine,” he said. “Get back to you soon as I can. If you don’t hear from me in, say, a week — call back.”
“Will do, Major. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“In the meantime, though, if you could give me one bit of information, I’d appreciate it.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you recall any epidemics of either influenza or pneumonia at your base during the last ten years?”
“Ten years? Hmm. I haven’t been here that long. We did have a meningitis outbreak a couple of years ago, but that was bacterial. Very nasty.”
“We’re limiting the inquiry to viral respiratory illnesses.”
“Well,” he said, “I guess the information’s somewhere — hold on.”
Two minutes passed.
“Captain Katz, how can I help you?”
I repeated my request.
“That far back wouldn’t be on our computer,” he said. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Another exchange of numbers.
I put the receiver down, clogged with frustration, knowing the information was on someone’s hard drive or floppy disc, accessible, instantly, at the push of the right button.
Milo didn’t call back until four.
“Been trying to keep up with your Joneses,” he said. “The coroner has a death form on file for the first kid. Charles Lyman Jones the Fourth. Nothing suspicious — sudden infant death syndrome, certified by your friend Stephanie and backed up by a Rita Kohler, M.D.”
“She’s the head of the General Pediatrics division. Stephanie’s boss. She was originally their doctor, was out of town when Chad died.”
“Uh-huh. Well, it all looks kosher. Now, in terms of the parents, here’s what I’ve got so far. They live out in the West Valley and pay their property taxes on time — lots of taxes, cause they own lots of property. Fifty parcels.”
“Fifty? Where?”
“Right where they live — the entire surrounding tract is theirs. Not bad for a college teacher, huh?”
“College teacher with a trust fund.”
“No doubt. Other than that, they seem to live pretty simple and straight. Charles Lyman the Third drives a 1985 Volvo 240 four-door, received a speeding ticket last year and two parking citations, all paid. Cindy Brooks Jones drives a Plymouth Voyager van and is pure as the driven snow, infraction-wise. Ditto your surly nurse, if she’s Victoria June Bottomley, DOB 4/24/36, with an address in Sun Valley.”
“Sounds like her.”
“So far, Beaver Cleaverland.”
“You obviously didn’t get my message.”
“No. When and where?”
“Around eleven. I left it with Rick’s sister.”
“I didn’t get any emergency call.”
“That’s ’cause I did a one beeper,” I said. “Respecting your business procedures.” I recounted the suspicions my talk with Cindy had aroused and my call to South Carolina.
“Joe Sleuth,” he said. “Just can’t control yourself.”
“Hey, with your fees, I figured anything I could do myself would be a bargain.”
He grunted. “Knowing me is a bargain. Pneumonia, huh? So what’re you saying? Her lungs clog, it messes her plans up, so she fucks up her kids’ lungs — whatchacallit, projecting?”