“Most every visit,” Nichelle said proudly, as if she thought the more X-rays, the better. “He’s a very, very thorough doctor. The best that I’ve ever been to, truly.”
Jack cringed at this inappropriate glowing assessment of someone who was treating sinusitis undoubtedly caused by an overgrowth of bacteria with potentially dangerous cervical manipulation and unneccessary radiation to boot! Even if the machine was digital, over time the dose would add up.
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Barlow,” Jack said, making an effort to avoid the temptation to contradict the woman. The fact that a seemingly intelligent and educated person could hold such off-the-wall opinions in this day and age was a mystery to him. But he didn’t dwell on it.
Jack disconnected rather abruptly. He knew that had he not done so, he surely would have ended up lecturing Nichelle about her need to apply a modicum of her intelligence to her health-care choices. She was admittedly using her chiropractor as a GP. Without even replacing the handset, he began dialing Ronald Newhouse’s office. At about the halfway point he stopped, paused, then put the receiver it its cradle. He still felt enraged, and in that state of mind he was prescient enough to know he couldn’t have a coherent conversation. The idea that the man truly believed he could treat a sinus infection with spinal adjustment was execrable. The man had to be a charlatan.
To calm himself, Jack turned to composing an e-mail asking the thirty-plus other New York City medical examiners if they’d had any cases of VAD, particularly chiropractor-induced VAD. He was about to send the message when he decided to expand the request to deaths involving all types of alternative medical therapy, including but not limited to homeopathy, acupuncture, and Chinese herbal medicine.
Jack then searched the Barnes & Noble website for alternative-medicine titles and was amazed at the number available. Reading through the descriptions, he noted that there seemed to be many more pro than con, despite what he felt was the shaky underpinning of the various therapies. This only added to his curiosity, especially in an era when conventional medicine was moving toward more evidence-based therapy.
One title struck him: Trick or Treatment. He called one of the Barnes & Nobles on the West Side and asked that a copy be put aside. He was motivated to rectify his shameful ignorance of the subject.
Feeling more like himself, Jack went back to telephoning Ronald Newhouse. Again, halfway through the dialing process, he stopped and hung up the phone. He suddenly decided a site visit was in order, even though he knew very well that the powers-that-be frowned on site visits by the MEs. The OCME protocol called for site visits to be made by the well-trained medicolegal team, not medical examiners, unless extraordinary circumstances demanded the presence of a trained forensic pathologist. Although Jack guessed that neither the deputy chief nor the chief would see the current situation as one of those “extraordinary circumstances,” he decided to do it anyway. He had an irresistible urge to look the chiropractor in the eyes while he explained how spinal manipulation could cure sinusitis. He also wanted to see his expression when he told the guy he’d killed Keara Abelard, treating her for a garden-variety tension headache.
It had been a while since he last made a site visit. Back when he was newly hired, especially when he was involved in a complicated infectious-disease case, he made a lot of them, and almost got himself fired several times. The chief, Dr. Harold Bingham, had come within inches of dismissing Jack for willful insubordination.
As he waited for the elevator, Jack realized that if Ronald Newhouse had treated Keara with the suspected cervical manipulation, Jack wasn’t required to put “therapeutic complication” as the manner of death on the death certificate, which would be what everyone from Bingham on down would expect. He didn’t even have to put “accidental,” which was the designation for such a case before “therapeutic complication” had been devised in the mid-nineties. Jack realized he could put “homicide” as the cause of death, then turn the case report over to the DA as was done in more typical cases of criminality. “What a stir that would cause,” Jack said to himself with a mischievous smile as he boarded the elevator. And thinking in that vein, he thought that perhaps such a “political bomb” was what was needed to draw attention to the dangers of cervical manipulation.
9
12:55 P.M., MONDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2008
NEW YORK CITY
(7:55 P.M., CAIRO, EGYPT)
By the time Jack braked to a stop in front of Ronald Newhouse’s Fifth Avenue office, he felt better than he had in months. He was motivated, thanks to Keara Abelard, by having stumbled on the perfect diversion: a crusade of exposing the dangers of alternative medicine. He couldn’t wait to come face-to-face with the man.
Jack hopped off his bike and went about applying the collection of locks he used to secure his Trek. As he was applying the last one, someone tapped him on the shoulder.
Jack looked up into the face of a uniformed doorman, looking like he stepped off a movie set in his old-fashioned greatcoat with two rows of shiny brass buttons. “Sorry,” he said in a tone that suggested he wasn’t sorry at all. “You can’t leave your bike here. It’s against the rules.”
Redirecting his attention to the final lock, Jack finished the task of securing the bike.
“Hey, buddy!” the doorman said. “Did you hear me? You can’t leave the freaking bike here. It’s private property.”
Standing up without saying a word, Jack fished in his pants pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flashed his official New York City medical examiner’s badge. It looked to all the world like a policeman’s badge, unless you looked closely.
“Sorry, sir!” the doorman said hastily.
“It’s quite all right,” Jack said. “The bike won’t be here long.”
“No problem, sir. I’ll keep my eye on it. Can I help you in any way?”
“I’m here to see Ronald Newhouse,” Jack said. He couldn’t bring himself to use the title “doctor.” Nor did he say whether he was there in an official capacity or as a patient.
“This way, sir,” the doorman said obsequiously, gesturing toward the front door and leading Jack into the foyer. He opened the inner door with a key and pointed. “Dr. Newhouse’s office is down the hall, first door on the left.”
“Thank you,” Jack said, wondering if the man would have been equally gracious if he knew Jack was a medical examiner.
DR. RONALD NEWHOUSE AND ASSOCIATES was stenciled in gold leaf on the door. When he walked in, it was immediately apparent that Newhouse ran a successful practice. Not only could he afford the Fifth Avenue rent, which Jack assumed was significant, he’d had the waiting room decked out in style. There were original oil paintings on the walls, plush furniture, and a large Oriental rug. What made it appear different from any successful medical doctor’s office he’d seen were three stools with contour seats connected to their bases by a movable ball joint. A woman in her twenties occupied one of the stools. With her hands on her knees and her legs spread apart such that her dress drooped between her knees, she was in constant motion in a manner that reminded Jack of his daughters using their hula hoops. While he watched her, the woman caught his eye and smiled. She appeared completely unselfconscious, leading Jack to believe the unique activity was normal in the environment.
“Can I help you?” a pleasant female voice asked from Jack’s right. He turned to face an immaculately dressed woman with every strand of dark hair in place. Jack was impressed. Even her manicure was perfect.
“I think so,” Jack said. He stepped over to the woman, who smiled up at him. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve never been in a chiropractor’s office.”