“I’m sorry,” said Jackson. “I wish I could be more cooperative. I’ll be running some tests to be sure these deposits in the heart and elsewhere are amyloid. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” said Jason. “What about the slides on Hayes?”
“Not ready yet,” said Jackson.
Jason returned to the second floor and walked over to the outpatient area. As a doctor he’d always had questions about the efficacy of certain tests, procedures and drugs. But he had never had reason to question his general competence. In fact, in most situations he’d always thought of himself as well above average. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Such misgivings were disturbing, especially because he’d been using work as his major sense of self since Danielle’s death.
“Where have you been?” demanded Sally, catching up to Jason as he tried to slip into his office. Within minutes Sally had Jason buried beneath a host of minor problems that thankfully absorbed his attention. By the time he could catch his breath, it was just after twelve. He saw his last patient, who wanted advice and shots for a trip to India, and then he was free.
Claudia tried to get him to join her and some other secretaries for lunch, but Jason declined. He retreated to his office and brooded. The worst part for Jason was the frustration. He felt something was terribly wrong, but he didn’t know what it was or what to do about it. A loneliness descended over him.
“Damn,” said Jason, slapping the top of his desk with his open palm, hard enough to send unattached papers flying. He had to avoid slipping into a depression. He had to do something. Changing from his white coat to his jacket, he grabbed his beeper and descended to his car. He drove around the Fenway, passing the Gardner Museum and then the Museum of Fine Arts on his right. Then, heading south on Storrow Drive, he got off at Arlington. His destination was Boston Police Headquarters.
At police headquarters a policeman directed Jason to the fifth floor. As soon as he got off the elevator, he saw the detective coming down the hall, balancing a full mug of coffee. Curran was jacketless, with the top button of his shirt open and his tie loosened. Under his left arm dangled a worn leather holster. When he saw Jason he seemed perplexed until Jason reminded him that they’d met at the morgue and at GHP.
“Ah, yes,” Curran said, with his slight brogue. “Alvin Hayes business.”
He invited Jason into his office, which was starkly utilitarian with a metal desk and metal file cabinet. On the wall was a calendar with the Celtics’ basketball schedule.
“How about some coffee?” Curran suggested, putting his mug down.
“No, thank you,” Jason said.
“You’re smart,” Curran said. “I know everybody complains about institutional coffee, but this stuff is lethal.” He pulled a metal chair away from the wall and motioned to it for Jason to sit.
“So what can I do for you, doctor?”
“I’m not sure. This Hayes business disturbs me. Remember I told you that Dr. Hayes said he’d made a major discovery? Well, now I think there’s a good chance he did. After all, the man was a world-famous researcher, and he was working in a field with a lot of potential.”
“Wait a minute. Didn’t you also tell me you thought Hayes was having a nervous breakdown?”
“At the time I thought he was displaying inappropriate behavior,” Jason said. “I thought he was paranoid and delusional. Now I’m not sure. What if he did make a major discovery which he hadn’t revealed because he was still perfecting it? Suppose someone found out and for some reason wanted it suppressed?”
“And had him killed?” Curran interrupted patronizingly. “Doctor, you’re forgetting one major fact: Hayes died of natural causes. There was no foul play, no gunshot wounds to the head, no knife in the back. And on top of that, he was dealing. We found heroin, coke, and cash in his Southie pad. No wonder he acted paranoid. The drug scene is a serious world.”
“Wasn’t that anonymous tip a bit strange?” Jason asked, suddenly curious.
“It happens all the time. Somebody’s pissed about something so they call us to get even.”
Jason stared at the detective. He thought the drug connection was out of character, but didn’t know why. Then he remembered that Hayes had been living with an exotic dancer. Maybe it wasn’t so out of character after all.
As if reading Jason’s thoughts, Curran said, “Listen, doctor, I appreciate you taking the time to come down, but facts are facts. I don’t know if this guy made a discovery or not, but let me tell you something. If he was dealing drugs, he was taking them too. That’s the pattern. I had the Vice department run his name through their computers. They came up with zip, but that just means he hadn’t been caught yet. He’s lucky he got to die of natural causes. In any case, I can’t justify spending Homicide time on the death.”
“I still think there’s more to it.”
Curran shook his head.
“Dr. Hayes was trying to tell me something,” Jason persisted. “I think he wanted help.”
“Sure,” Curran said. “He probably wanted to pull you into his drug ring. Listen, doctor, take my advice. Forget this affair.” He stood up, indicating the interview was over.
Descending to the street, Jason removed the parking ticket from his windshield wiper. Sliding in behind the wheel, he thought about his conversation with Detective Curran. The man had been cordial, but he obviously gave little credence to Jason’s thoughts and intuition. As Jason started his car, he remembered something else Hayes had said about his discovery. He’d said it was “ironic.” Now that was a weird way to characterize a major scientific breakthrough, especially if someone were contriving the story.
Back at the GHP, Jason returned to his patients, going from room to room listening, touching, sympathizing, and advising. That was what he loved about medicine. People opened themselves to him, literally and figuratively. He felt privileged and needed. Some of his confidence ebbed back.
It was close to four when he approached exam room C and took the chart. He remembered the name. It was Paul Klingler, the man whose physical exam he had done. Before entering the room, Jason quickly reviewed his workup. The man appeared to be healthy, with low normal cholesterol and triglycerides and normal EKG. Jason entered the room.
Klingler was slender, with sandy blond hair and the quiet confidence of an old moneyed Yankee. “What was wrong with my tests?” he asked, concerned.
“Nothing, really.”
“But your secretary told me you wanted to repeat some. That I had to come today.”
“Sorry about that. There was no need for alarm. When she heard you weren’t feeling well, she thought we should take a look.”
“I’m just getting over the flu,” Paul said. “Kids brought it home from school. I’m much better. The only problem is that it has kept me from exercise for over a week.”
The flu didn’t scare Jason. Healthy people didn’t die of it. But he still examined Paul Klingler carefully and repeated the various cardiac tests. Finally he told Klingler that he’d call if the blood work revealed any abnormalities.
Two patients later, Jason confronted Holly Jennings, a fifty-four-year-old executive from one of the largest Boston advertising firms. She was not happy and certainly not shy about expressing her feelings. And although there was a sign specifically forbidding it, she’d been smoking in the exam room while she had been waiting.
“What the hell is going on?” she demanded as Jason entered the room. Her physical a month ago had given her a clean bill of health, though Jason had warned her to stop smoking and take off the twenty to thirty extra pounds she had put on in the last five years.
“I’d heard you weren’t feeling well,” Jason said mildly. He noticed she looked tired, and saw the dark circles under her eyes.