He looked up at me, his expression as sour as ever. “It’s not m?II knoy resignation, if that’s what you were hoping.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’ve got something else for you to do.” I put the subpoenas on his desk. “DEA just gave us three doctors who might have treated the guy with the hump. Brandt took Goldbaum; which one do you want?”
He glanced at the papers and leaned back in his chair. “Why me?”
“Why not?”
“You’re doing me a favor, right? Keeping me involved, showing what a good leader of men you are?”
I hesitated. There was always the option of crowning him with his typewriter. Instead I answered, “Yes.”
He stared at me for a long minute and then glanced again at the subpoenas. “I’ll take Morris.”
That left Duquesne-he had only one patient we were interested in. I headed out back to one of the unmarked cars. The lower the profile, the better.
Dr. Duquesne worked on the top floor of the Professional Building adjacent to the hospital. It was a brick structure, cheaply made and minimally maintained, with a screeching front door, threadbare carpeting and the general look of a motel on the downward slide. There were already two people in his small, paneled waiting room, despite the early hour. I went to the nurse’s window and showed her my badge.
“Is he available?”
“You’ll have to make an appointment.”
“I’m not here for treatment. This is official.”
“Will it take long?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. “I don’t know.”
She looked unsure. “I’ve only seen this happen on TV. Am I supposed to interrupt him now and tell him you’re here?”
“Is he with a patient?”
“Yes.”
“Is he almost finished or just starting?”
“He’s almost finished.”
“Then I’ll wait here, and you can tell him about me between patients. How’s that sound?”
She gave me a radiant smile. “That’s wonderful. That’s what I’ll do. Won’t you have a seat?”
I had a seat. It was shaped for a body other than mine. After five minutes of staring at the paneling, the two pictures of ducks on the wall, the coffee table laden with ancient magazines, and my two far more ancient co-waiters, I was rewarded by the appearance of a small boy and his mother and a tall, white-haired man in a lab coat. The man crooked his finger at me and faded back to the interior hallway. I went after him.
“What can I do for you?” His tone was meticulously neutral.
“I need to ask you about a prescription you wrote three years ago for a patient named Steven Cioffi.” ‹"0e›
“I’m not sure I can tell you that.”
I gave him the duces tecum, which he read slowly and carefully.
“He’s a murder suspect,” I added when he’d finished.
Duquesne pursed his lips and looked at the floor. “Maybe I ought to call my lawyer.”
“You can. It’ll probably mean tying all this up long enough for Cioffi to get away, assuming he’s our man. If he’s not the one we’re after, he’ll never know about it.”
Duquesne hesitated a little longer, tapping the subpoena against his thumbnail. Finally, he cracked open the door to the receptionist’s office. “Lisa, get me the file on Steven Cioffi.”
His office was small and compulsively neat, which I suppose is a good sign in a specialist. I sat in one chair; he sat in the other. His desk lay between us like a dock.
“So, who is this man suspected of killing?”
“Kimberly Harris.”
His neutral eyebrows rose. “I take it the wrong man is in jail?”
“Not necessarily. It gets a little complicated. Several people may have been involved. Did Cioffi have Cushing’s at that time?”
“Oh, yes. I was treating him for acute asthma. The Cushing’s episode lasted only a few weeks, and then we brought it and the asthma under control.”
“Is he still your patient?”
“As far as I know. I don’t see him very often now that he’s on regular doses.”
“Still prednisone?”
“Yes, but in lesser quantities. That heavy dosage was only to bring him back from the brink. How did you know he had Cushing’s, by the way? The hump?”
“Initially it was a semen sample found on the victim. The hump was identified later. Do you happen to be friends with this Steven Cioffi?”
The doctor smiled thinly. “I’m not friends with many of my patients. If I were, Mr. Cioffi would not be among them.”
I sensed that had been a factor in Duquesne’s decision to cooperate. The nurse appeared at the door with the file. The doctor took it from her and nodded her away.
“Not one of your favorite people?”
He opened the file and began leafing through it slowly. “No. He’s not a nasty man, mind you; he’s just totally lacking in… I don’t know what you’d call it… Charm, maybe.”
“Charm?”
“Well, you know. He’s not particularly bright or well spoken. He seems dull and single-minded. He has absolutely no sense of humor or curiosity. He’s just kind of blah… You know the type?”
Looking at Duquesne, I decided to duck the subject of type. “Does he e. entifhave the makings of a killer, in your personal view?”
“We all do. It is interesting that you think he may have been involved in a murder just as the Cushing’s was manifesting itself, however.”
“Why?”
“Well, it gives him an extra edge in that department. Heavy doses of prednisone can make one moody, depressed, sometimes even delirious.”
“And you think that may have happened with Cioffi?”
“He was more prone to it than others I’ve treated-it may be some reflection of sociological background. Of course, that isn’t my field.”
“What’s a man capable of when he has Cushing’s? I mean, is he as strong as usual? Can he run around the block?”
“Under normal conditions, I’d say no. His inclination is to rest. There is some muscular weakness associated with the syndrome. In Cioffi’s case it was not debilitating. If his adrenaline were pumping high enough, he’d have normal strength. However, I don’t see him running around the block, as you say, under normal conditions. He’s kind of a tubby, flabby man.”
“How is he now?”
“Fine-for the moment. The asthma is under control. His looks are back to normal.”
“What’s ‘for the moment’ mean?”
“He’s developed aseptic necrosis in the right hip-it’s a degeneration of the femoral head. Prednisone does that sometimes.”
“So he limps?”
“Now he limps. He uses a cane. Later, in two or three years, he’ll be in a wheelchair.”
“Jesus. Isn’t that a high price to pay for asthma?”
“It’s a trade-off. His asthma wasn’t just a little wheezing. It was about to kill him.”
“But he can get around now.”
“Oh, yes. He could even run around your proverbial block, again if he were adequately stimulated. Of course, it wouldn’t improve his hip any.”
“Do you have an address on him?”
Duquesne closed the folder and passed it across his desk to me. “I suppose most of this is yours now anyway. You’ll find everything you need-or at least everything I know-in there.”
“How about blood samples? Do you have any of those?”
“Several. I take them and urine samples periodically for monitoring purposes.”
“Do you have any that date back to when he had Cushing’s?”
“Yes. They’re at the hospital-in the deep freeze.”
“If you could call the hospital as soon as I leave and tell them to release those samples to us, I’d greatly appreciate it.” ate he
He frowned. “Am I obligated to do that?”
I opened his warrant and showed him the paragraph that dealt with the specific and dated materials in question.
He sighed and muttered, “All right.”
I thanked him and stood up. “There is something else I ought to tell you, doctor. We aren’t the only ones looking for Cioffi.” Duquesne just stared at me. “Have you been aware of what the newspaper’s been calling ‘the man in the mask,’ or Ski Mask?”
“Certainly. I’d have to live in a cocoon not to.”
“Well, he’s the other one interested in Cioffi, although he only knows him as a mysterious hunchback right now.”