Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

David took the usual hilly route to the Foster estate, the Mercedes barely qualifying for DRIVE, its top up and tapes quiet. He felt like a circus aerialist who yesterday had a new routine down pat and today woke up as the clown.

"David, welcome," Nora said in the foyer. "No scarf or gloves today?"

Where's she been? It's like summer out. "No, it's too mild-for a change."

"Alton should be here any minute. Come in. Have a seat. Let me take you to his study." Her shoulders were still speckled with dandruff. "Awful stuff yesterday, wasn't it? Did you read the morning paper? Now there are narcotics in the picture. What a mess."

They walked two abreast down a long hall. Six could have fit. He was struck by the echo of their voices, undampened by the crowded receptions of previous days. Nor were there now any perfumes or food spreads to mask the fusty smell of the Tudor's interior.

They sat opposite each other in rococo chairs more appropriate in a nineteenth century parlor than in a private study. The room had blue papered walls, oak trim, and cluttered surfaces. Two patterned nine-by-twelve rugs covered the floor, corner to corner.

David wasted no time. "Nora, while we have a minute, all right to ask you a question or two?"

"Why, yes. But shouldn't we wait for Alton?"

"With all due respect, I'd rather speak to him alone. Would that be okay?" David purposefully wanted separate interviews to see if their stories jibed.

"Well … he's much closer to everything, but I'll try to be helpful."

"Good. Does Alton own a motorcycle?"

Nora hesitated and then laughed uncontrollably.

She hadn't finished when David said, "Does he?"

She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a tissue she pulled from the sleeve of her housecoat. Then, clearing her throat, she said, "But whatever in heaven's name for?"

"Then he doesn't?"

"No, of course not. Why do you ask?"

"Curious, that's all."

He was about to inquire about their whereabouts Thursday night when Foster appeared at the door. "I saw your car out there," he said, fixing David with a level stare. "Is anything wrong?"

"No," David said, standing. An earlier adrenaline rush had begun to wane and he felt a stitch in his knee. "Nothing new."

"I'll leave you two alone," Nora said, looking relieved. The study door squeaked as she closed it behind her.

Foster did not replace her in the rococo chair, instead choosing his desk swivel chair, a piece among the mishmash that represented four centuries of furniture. Foster signaled him to sit.

"Alton, I won't take much of your time but there are some questions and … "

"Don't be silly, fire away. Take all the time you need but first-any leads?"

"On yesterday?"

"On any of them. Christ, will it ever end?"

"No, nothing definite yet."

"They're shutting down the hospital, you know." "They're what?"

"Starting tomorrow. I suspected it would happen, even without Spritz's killing. We'll have to discharge the electives home and ship the emergents across town. The accreditors said once they feel the hospital's safe, they'll allow us to reopen." Foster ran his fingers through his hair. "Would you like a drink?"

"No thanks, too early."

"Mind if I have one."

"No, not at all."

Foster reached into the cabinet behind him and produced a glass and a bottle of Chivas Regal. He downed half a glass-no water, no ice-in less time than it took to pour it.

"Okay, let me start," David said, "and if a `yes' or `no' answer will do in your opinion-that's fine. You don't have to expand unless you want to."

"Got it," Foster said with a silly grin.

"Do you have a motorcycle you're keeping under wraps?" David took out his pad.

"Do I have a what that I'm what?"

"A motorcycle. A red one."

Foster eyed the Scotch bottle and replied, "No, I'm afraid not. But if I did, I'd hightail it off into never-never land right about now."

David looked at a blank page without writing a note. "Do you own any guns?"

"No."

David checked off an imaginary question. "Did you know Victor Spritz was involved in drugs?"

"No, not as a dealer which it appeared like he was. As a user? That wouldn't have shocked me."

David curled his finger under his mouth. "Can you tell me, Alton, where you were Friday night?"

Foster didn't hesitate. "Right here. I had a headache after the funeral reception and I went to bed early."

"What time was that?"

"Eight-thirty … nine."

"And Nora?"

"She had some club meeting to go to. I think it was the Garden Club."

"When did she get home?"

"I have no idea," Foster snapped. "I was asleep."

David pretended to write meaningful notes on two pages of his pad to allow time for Foster to decompress.

"Okay, that's that," David said. "Next, the missing botulism vial …"

"I was going to call you about that misunderstanding, David, but it makes no difference now. We're being closed anyway, so I'll notify the Health Department. I know John Bartholomew thinks someone made off with the vial, but I really think it must have been accidentally discarded. He's slipping, you know."

"That much?"

"That much."

David regarded the hospital administrator with cold speculation. "We'll see," he said. "Now you won't like this, I'm sure, but about your surgical training."

Foster probed David's face. "How did you find out about that?" he asked, without emotion. "I haven't advertised it."

"I can't say at the moment, Alton, but can you tell me why P.G.H. let you go?" How can he be so calm? The liquor?

"That's a no-brainer." Foster stuck his chin out, defiantly. "They didn't like the quality of my work."

"And it took two years for them to come to that conclusion?"

Foster, who had been swiveling in his chair as he answered questions, stopped abruptly and gave David a blistering look. "That's it!" he cried, his voice rising an octave. "End of conversation." He leaped from his chair, threw open the door and stormed down the hall like a duck with sore feet. David remained seated but watched him gradually slow his pace and, reaching the end of the hall, turn and waddle back.

Foster ignored David as he passed him. He eased into his chair awkwardly, poured himself another drink, took a long slug, then another. He slammed his fist into an open hand and said, "Jesus, I hate it when I get like that. Sorry, David-nerves, I guess." He finished the drink and continued, "Look, I understand your position and that you're helping out the police and all that. But given that they're closing us down and that-let's not beat around the bush-that I'm a suspect …" He heaved a breath. "Why, for Christ's sake, I have no idea. It's my goddamn hospital!"

David thought Foster, eyes like pinwheels, might run out the door again.

"So, David, let me say-I'd better stick to answering just the cops' questions. Kathy's, that Nick guy, whoever. It's more official that way, and I hope you understand."

David was not sure he did, but he nodded his approval. One question short of completing his planned list-he had intended to ask Foster about his affair with Betty Tanarkle-he thanked him for his time.

At the front entrance, David said, "I hope we can get to the bottom of all this-for the sake of justice, and for the hospital." Foster's expression had turned opaque.

The ride home was as fitful as an insomniac's sleep. In thinking about the brazen attempt on his life and possibly on Kathy's, he was certain if the perp had seen him fall, he would have turned the gun on her. And since he botched the first shot, he panicked and ran. But David lingered on his error in assuming the red motorcycle belonged to Spritz. And what of the oily cardboard? A week ago, he might have become stalled in questions of his analytical skills-but not now; there was too much at stake, and, he sensed, too little time. Although he considered it a giant leap in deduction, the error also warned him against prioritizing his suspect list. It leveled its membership.