"You don't understand."
"Yes, I do understand. You're trying to do too much at once-and that's based only on what I know you're doing."
"All this because you want to see a New York show?"
He heard Kathy groan into, "Oh, for heaven's sake!"
David forced a laugh. "Maybe you've got a point." He became conscious of his fluttering eyelids. "But I just can't get away from thinking I'm in a race."
"Against who?"
"Time."
They agreed to spend part of an afternoon at Lincoln Center, at a time David would select to grill Bernie Bugles. But that would be later on, for what had started out as an emergency undertaking, now slipped in his list of priorities, undoubtedly because his mindset didn't include musical diversions. He left the desk, mulling over what Kathy had said about the tight ball, and over what the top priorities should be.
There is, for example, the matter of tracking down the other Japanese dagger, if another exists at all, although Mr. Razbit says it does. And what about locating the Japanese rifle used to kill Coughlin? Suddenly, we have two murders with an Asian connection, and if Bernie's our killer and his Tokyo experience twenty years ago qualifies, we have three. Then again, maybe his experience is more current than that. And, where the hell is Victor Spritz?
After lunch, David drove to the crime lab with the cardboard sign he had torn from Spritz's office door. "Do you still have the strips of tape I gave you?" he asked Sparky. "You know, from the rock." He removed the sign from Friday and dropped it on the desk.
"I see what you're driving at," Sparky said. "Yes, I keep everything. Excuse me." He opened the bivalve doors on a side wall and pulled out one of several old shoe boxes piled on the top shelf. It was labeled, "Hollings Hospitaclass="underline" 1/99."
Sparky placed the rock on the sign and said of the block letters, "They seem to match all right-to my eyes, anyway."
"Mine, too," David said. "Son-of-a-bitch!"
"Wait, now, we're not pros at this. I've seen mistakes made."
"So? Let's get a handwriting expert. Do we have one around here?"
"Certainly. Darn good one, too. She's on call. But I want to warn you, David. They're good at excluding a sample, but swearing to a definite match can be ticklish. If they can't be sure, they do like pathologists do with slides: they send samples around to colleagues they respect to get a consensus. That could take a week or more."
"We don't have that much time. Hold off for now."
Back at the Hole, David was perusing his notes when his cellular buzzed. "David, I got more for you," Kathy said.
"From Archie?"
"No, from our Assault Unit. Foster's been arrested."
"Arrested? For what?"
"Trying to punch a news reporter."
"I can't believe it! Where?"
"In his office. Guess he thought the reporter could soften the impact of the killings on the hospital's reputation. The report states Foster was told by the kid-he's been with the paper about a month-'All crimes occur in society and a hospital is part of society.' Foster was apparently impressed with that, so he invites him up. Only when he gets there, the reporter starts talking about how brutal the crimes were, and about the hospital's lack of security; and doesn't he, as administrator, worry that people will be too frightened to choose Hollings for their care now?"
"Jesus!"
"That's when he tries to slug him."
"Where's Foster now?"
"Not in jail. They released him on his own recognizance. He went home."
"Well, I'm not calling him. Stupid jerk. They should have jailed him. Then I wouldn't have to be a frigging nursemaid."
But he thought he should at least check with the reporter. "Do you have the kid's name? And which paper?"
"Adam Slaughton at the Herald." She gave him the phone number and extension.
"Talk to-you later," David said. He punched numbers into the phone; a spiritless voice answered. "This is Adam Slaughton."
"Adam, Dr. David Brooks here. I'm associated with Hollings General Hospital and I've been asked to help in the investigation of the untoward deaths here."
"Yes, I know. I've tried to reach you several times for a comment or two but I kept getting your machine." The tone of the reporter's voice never varied. "Is that why you're calling?"
"No, I'm calling to ask about what happened with Alton Foster today-if you feel you can talk about it."
"I've already written the story on it, so why not? I started what I thought was a straightforward interview and when I got to a certain question, he went ballistic."
"What was the question?"
"Something like, `I hear you and Mr. Bugles didn't get along.' He screams, `That's not true!' and then throws this roundhouse punch that even my grandmother could dodge. I could have clobbered him but I thought better of it."
"So you pressed charges."
"Correct." It was the first word released from a monotone. "If I hadn't, no telling what the guy might have said to the police. I told my editor about it and he said I should file an official complaint which I did. We had to preempt anything Foster might have concocted."
"I see," David said. He squared himself in his chair. "By the way, how big are you?"
"Excuse me."
"Are you short-tall-heavy-thin?"
"Frankly, I don't know why I'm answering this, but I'm about six-one; maybe 210. Why? What difference does that make?"
"Curious, that's all. Thank you for the details. You've been a great help."
"You're welcome. Can you tell me now-you have any solid leads?"
David had wrapped his scarf around his neck with one hand. He cradled the phone on his shoulder and said, "No, not at all. But, tell you what, Adam. When a lead becomes so solid that the perpetrator is obvious, I'll give you my only interview."
He replaced the phone and felt good about laying the word "perpetrator" on a news reporter.
Chapter 11
It was dark and cold when David and Robert Bugles arrived at Highland Estates, an upscale condominium complex ten minutes from Hollings General. Set into a knoll not far from the gated entrance, Charlie Bugles' unlighted unit appeared swallowed by slabs of ledge as David followed Robert up gradually circling steps of compressed bark. Only an iron handrail gave David any sense of direction.
Inside, Robert turned on the lights from a central switch and said, "Here we are. I'll go watch T.V. You do what you have to do, Dr. Brooks." He unwrapped a candy bar.
"I won't take long. If nothing catches my eye, we'll be out of here in five or ten minutes."
Robert disappeared into the next room and David stood in the foyer for a moment. He could see segments of four rooms from there and was surprised at how compact the unit was. Not much bigger than his. Kathy wouldn't like it.
As he wandered from room to room-kitchen, living room, dining room-he smelled the dampness of a cave he once played in as a boy and, at the television's initial blare, he recoiled the same as he had from the piercing cry of bats he had never gotten used to.
He didn't spend much time in those rooms-he didn't want to-but headed straight for a small rear one that he thought might be a study. Its walls were coated with plaques and citations, and David was tempted to remove his shoes before stepping onto its Oriental carpeting. The room was dominated by shades of red-lamps, leather chairs, cherry desk and tables-and its tidiness would have done justice to a home furnishings ad.
He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then, after pivoting to leave, he did a double take, his gaze returning to a photograph perched on a coral filing cabinet. It looked like a blown-up original. David picked it up and read a notation on the back: "Blue mosque-Istanbul."
Idly, he opened the top drawer of the cabinet. The first folder was labeled "Hospital-Foster." He thumbed through it, stopping at a letterhead from Philadelphia General Hospital. He eased it out of the folder. It was dated, "June 15, 1978," and signed, "Marcus Oblink, M.D., Chief, Department of Surgery." It was addressed to "Mr. Charles Bugles, Chairman, Hollings Hospital Corporation." The letter's essence was contained in the last paragraph. It stated that Dr. Alton Foster, having not performed satisfactorily, was dismissed from its surgical training program after two years of residency.