Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

David drilled the last period into his notepad and got up. "Many thanks, Ted."

"See you after lunch. And, David.. " He extended a hand. "Good luck."

David shook the hand. "Thanks, my friend. Hang in there." Rounding the table, he glanced at a slide box labeled, "Grand Rounds: N.Y.C. 12-17-97." Next to it was a box labeled: "Grand Rounds: Boston." There was no date.

At the doorway, David paused, about to turn back to ask about the label. But he figured he'd be checking on the alibi later in the morning.

Ten-thirty. It was too late for coffee with the morning gang, but David decided to head for the cafeteria anyway. Better to be alone for a moment. Friday in tote, he strode his stride, now barreling along smoothly, now ducking at imaginary ceilings. The hospital quiet implored on property signs was pierced by the operators' curt, flat pages that sounded like Space Center announcements. In the hallways, he passed the usual inhabitants: doctors writing while they flitted by; nurses in pairs; technicians with lab trays of vacutubes and tourniquets. David recognized them all, but no one stopped to chat. It was as if they knew he was on a mission. And, their greetings were … well … different. Was it their polite nod? Did each feel suspect?

He fixed a coffee. The cashier said, "It's enough to give you the willies."

"What does?"

"C'mon, doc, them murders. You got the black case there. You got the weapon in it, right?"

"No, Sophie, no weapon, only my lunch." David gave her a dollar and didn't wait for change.

He grabbed a table off to the side and sat facing the wall, stirring his coffee in slow sync with the personalities drifting through his mind: Spritz, Tanarkle, even Marsha. And what of Coughlin across town? Venom, big time. Enough to go around for more than one murder.

Motive-wise, he had begun to combine the murders into one. Cortez had to go in order to kill Bugles in the outrageous fashion the murderer selected. But, why that way in the first place? David still hadn't taken a sip.

He returned to thoughts of Spritz and Tarnarkle and the necessity of questioning friends. Questions with an inference. But wait till the real stingers come-like, "Where were you at such-and-such a time?" It should get easier, right? Separation of friendship and criminal justice, pal.

He took his first sip of coffee and left. Ninety-five cents to stir, a nickle to drink.

Next, Foster. He took an elevator to the sixth floor and crossed over to the administrative wing.

"You know him," Foster's secretary, Doris, said, "he's all over the place. Especially the surgical wing. He's always there, it seems. Never in the cafeteria, though-I don't know why. He's brown-bagged it ever since I've been here."

Doris was one employee David had never dated. Fair, fat and forty-good candidate for gallstones, he mused.

She looked at the clock on the mahogany wall. "He should be back at eleven-thirty, Dr. Brooks."

David's phone tickled his hip.

"Are you in the building?" Belle asked.

"Yeah, I'm heading down. What's up?"

"Two things. First, I'm not sure whether to book calls. You're tied up for awhile, right?"

"Not completely. We'll talk about it. I'll be right there." He was about to replace the phone. "Wait," she said. "David, I just received the craziest call. This guy says, `Is your boss still on the case?' He sounded so creepy."

"What did you say?"

"I didn't know what to say but I blurted out something like, `I'm sorry, this is Dr. Brooks' medical office,' and he hung up."

"Did you recognize the voice."

"No. It was deep and kinda muffled."

"Definitely male?"

"Yes, unless she had a bad cold."

"See you in a minute."

The Hole was located off a corridor on the basement level next to an equipment room, not far from the old elevator. It was a tiny space with a door and had ratty walls, a ratty ceiling and a ratty cement floor. Hugging the top of the corridor, flaking cream pipes came at the door from both sides and snaked through its header to fan out above three furniture pieces and a cabinet inside. The pipes which David swore were sheathed in unreported asbestos, ran through two cellar-like windows on the outer wall, apparently into a rear corridor. He often wondered what in hell he was doing in such a rattrap. Some favor Foster's doing me. Rent-free, but sure as shooting, he's claiming a tax credit.

Once in a while, David could smell medicinal and detergent crosscurrents from the pharmacy and laundry on opposite ends of the corridor. And just as often, as he dashed from the Hole, he would freeze in his tracks to avert the daily caravan of laundry carts.

Belle sat on a tubular steel chair at a green metal desk. She appeared more flustered than she had sounded on the phone.

"Whew," she said, "that never happened during your missing persons cases."

"What never happened?"

"That voice."

"Forget it. He knows goddam well I'm still on the case."

"Then why call?"

"Intimidation, my Belle, intimidation. Goes with the territory." David felt a brief rush of pride at his sudden expertise in crisis management.

"So you're definitely in this thing? It's what you want?" Belle asked.

"It's what I want."

"I'm worried about you."

"I've had an interesting life."

"David, cut that out!"

An Emergency Room nurse for years, Annabelle Burns Osowicki agreed to be "borrowed" by David until "you get your newfangled practice off the ground." She had divorced after a year of marriage and lived with her eleven-year-old daughter. David had sworn her to secrecy about all phases of the investigation.

He had had his pick of the hospital's eligible women and often picked Belle until Kathy resurfaced for good. He never received a signal from Belle that she felt abandoned, probably because their talk had never reached a serious pitch. He guessed she had once kept her figure for him, but now, on the cusp of menopause, had begun to let straighten what was once curved and let curve what was once straight. Yet her hair still flamed, her smile was just as engaging, and she could still turn a head or two.

"Sorry. Look, this guy's not after me. There's something else bugging him. All this stuff about running me down and cryptic messages and now a follow-up phone call-is just bullshit. He's grandstanding. Or, better still: he knows I'm an amateur, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's doing this to send a message to the police."

"What kind of message?"

"That he's concerned about yours truly more than about them. He's sort of vouching for me. And if I'm that worrisome to the killer, the pros are more apt to relax and let me handle things."

Belle gave him the same look of admiration he had seen many times before. But not in the middle of a killing game.

"You know," she said, "you never explained why the cops are letting you take over, except for Kathy."

David sat on the other chair. "They say they're overworked. That's bull, too. They probably are-at least Kathy looks tired all the time-but that's not the reason. I think the real reason is that this isn't an ordinary case. Most murders don't happen on an operating room table, in full view of the whole damn hospital, for Christ's sake! So it's not your run-of-the-mill killing and isn't about to be cracked overnight. Next, what happens is they slowly begin to lose interest and allow themselves to get bogged down in their other garbage. They know all this. And now they have me."

"For sure," she said softly.

"Picture it, Belle: a gumshoe on the inside who can devote all his time to this one case. Knows the medical ropes. Is practically Kathy's husband. It's perfect for them and perfect for me."

"For you?"

"Yeah, I have their backups, all their forensic support. All I have to do is call. Plus, I'm in the big leagues now."