Finally, after letting him rest, Amy unfolded a walker. It was scuffed and old, but it would do. They locked the wheels of his chair and he kicked back the footrests. She had him by the gait belt as he hoisted himself up and nearly fell. But then he was up, standing, holding the arms of the walker. “Easy…take your time…you’re doing great…” He heard the words and moved slowly, his mind focused solely on not falling. For those moments, he couldn’t stew about Judd Mason and the letter to Christine Lustig. Could he have been wrong all these years about Bud Chambers and the Slasher case? He couldn’t worry about Cheryl Beth, who might be in danger. He could only try to…walk. His body was now an awkward, dangerous contraption liable to go down at any second. Don’t fall…don’t fall…every brain impulse was focused on one command. But his feet moved. His legs pushed forward. He was using the walker. Five feet. Ten feet. Turn. He was grateful to ease himself back down into the seat of the wheelchair. Amy patted him on the shoulder.
“Great job today,” she said. “You’re just doing great.” When the other therapist left to deal with a different patient, she whispered. “Thank you for talking to me the other night. I feel better telling the truth.”
“I know.”
It was nearly three p.m. when he wheeled himself into the newest wing of the hospital and through the highly polished wooden doors that led to the administrative offices. Stan Berkowitz didn’t just have his own office, he also had a secretary, a petite young woman who seemed shocked to see a patient in a wheelchair in a hospital. She gave him the brush-off, but then he showed his badge and told her he and Stan were old friends. Her manner instantly changed from brusque to cooperative. The old cop who had broken Will in on the homicide detail had told him that a good detective rarely needed to show his badge, that he should be able to get answers just by the way he handled himself. It was true-real detectives didn’t flash badges with the repetition of their counterparts on television. But now Will needed any edge he could get. The woman reappeared and said Stan would be happy to see him.
Berkowitz didn’t look that way.
“Just when I start thinking happy thoughts, Mister Internal Affairs shows up again.” Berkowitz was sitting on a round, cherry wood conference table dangling his legs over the edge like a child. He looked like a man with too much time on his hands. It wasn’t as if a doctor had recently been murdered in his hospital. He wore a dark blue suit and a red paisley tie. Will wore his usual sweatpants and T-shirt, hating them. He had always worn suits on the job. A suit said serious detective.
While much of the hospital looked threadbare, Berkowitz’s office was comfortably outfitted with an L-shaped desk, leather sofa, and the conference table flanked by three chairs, all of it new. His old CPD badge was mounted on a plaque behind his desk, along with several framed community awards. A large tri-fold of family photos sat on his desk.
“My sons,” he said, pointing to the photos, showing two teenage versions of himself. “At Country Day. Never could have afforded that on a cop’s salary. What part of town you grow up in, Borders?”
“Oakley.”
“Getting kind of fou-fou now,” he said.
“It wasn’t back then.” Will rolled up to the table and faced Berkowitz, who continued to swing his legs playfully, a man without a care in the world. Will was sore and constipated. He fought to keep it off his face.
“Don’t you have a son? How’s he doing?”
“Fine,” Will said. There was nothing more to say, certainly not to Stan Berkowitz.
“So what, aren’t they treating you right down in rehab?”
“I just have a few questions…”
Berkowitz laughed, showing bright white teeth, looking relaxed and congressional again. “Wish I could help, a former brother officer and all that, but Dodds told me not to talk to you.”
“Huh.” Now it was Will’s turn to laugh. He started to wheel around but Berkowitz’s voice stopped him.
“What the hell is that for?” A cop harshness crept in.
“I’m just surprised you’d listen to Dodds, considering what he’s said about you and all, David.”
“Don’t fucking call me David!” he sputtered. “What are you talking about? What about Dodds?”
“I’ve said too much.”
“Hell, no. Tell me.”
Will turned back to face him, looking him in the eye, then looking away and sighing. “Oh, hell, Stan, not your fault you washed out of homicide. It’s a shit job anyway. Look where you are now. Better than any of us.” Berkowitz had stopped swinging his legs and now had his hands flat on the tops of his thighs, his suit jacket open wide, exposing a little.38 Smith & Wesson in his belt. Will went on, “Let’s just say Dodds wasn’t your friend when you were on loan to the detail…”
“Goddamn it!” Berkowitz slapped the table, slid down, and walked heavily over to his desk, seeming to seek safe harbor. “I always knew it, always knew it. Shit, he wouldn’t even have that job if the department wasn’t under pressure to hire people of a Nubian persuasion, if you get my drift. All the shit we used to take from the Sentinels-hell, they have their own organization! They won’t even support the FOP! I always knew Dodds did me in. I was a good detective.”
Will didn’t bother to correct him: black officers were members of the Fraternal Order of Police, too. The right hot button had been pushed, and how. Will hadn’t exactly lied: Berkowitz had failed to make it in homicide and Dodds had thought he was a lightweight. When the shouting stopped, Will spoke again.
“So tell me about Judd Mason.”
“Yeah, screw Dodds.” Berkowitz flopped into his chair. “Judd Mason. I know him. He’s a circulating nurse. Used to work in the OR.”
“He worked in the operating room with Dr. Lustig.”
“That’s right, now that you mention it.” He rubbed his chin and stared down at the neat piles of papers on his desk. “I always wondered about him. We had a nurse here a couple of years ago, said he was a stalker. I guess they had a thing going and she tried to break it off. We try not to get involved in these kinds of things-hell, there’s more screwing going on around here than you’d believe. But she filed a complaint and I talked to him.”
“Is she…?”
“She left. Moved to Columbus. He left her alone after I talked to him. But he kind of seemed to have a screw loose.”
“How so?” Will asked.
Berkowitz shrugged. “Just something about the guy. Something quiet and strange. I guess he’s an okay nurse. Strange to me to see guys as nurses anyway. What’s their thing unless they’re homos, right?”
“So did you think about Mason when Dr. Lustig was killed?”
“Not really,” he said, crooking his mouth into a downward U. Will looked at him long enough for him to exclaim, “What?”
“Just seems kind of strange,” Will said. “He was stalking a nurse. He had worked with Lustig. She received telephone threats.”
“Didn’t seem connected to me.” Berkowitz held out his hands guilelessly.
“Did this Mason have any cop connections?”
“Huh? Cop connections?”
“Did he have cop friends? Drop any names when you talked to him about stalking?”
He waved it away. “Hey, I’d love to visit all day, but I’ve got a meeting. Off-site, as they say. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Borders. I’m about to leave this dump and take a job as head of security at University Hospital.”