Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

Finally, he retrieved the phone, stroked his chin thoughtfully and pressed New Jersey numbers he didn't have to look up.

"Hello, Tony?" he said evenly. "I need a favor. You there for awhile? Good, don't leave, I'll be right over."

That night, sleep came hard as David relived his brush with an aerial and craggy death. He felt strangely distanced from most negative emotions, although he ran several through his mind. Fear was not among them; there was no time for that. Retribution? Against whom? Relief had replaced anger. Earlier, he had been furious over the loss of headlights but now cared little about the loss of his car-and guns and cellular phone and equipment. And Friday. He felt lucky to be alive. Resolve had replaced uncertainty. He was unfamiliar with the code of conduct that bound members of the underworld and their "clients." If hit men fail to execute a contract, are they expected to try again, or are they given up as failures? No matter-he had to solve the mysteries plaguing Hollings General as swiftly as he had escaped from the car.

When he arrived home the night before, there had been a message on David's telephone answering machine to drop by Dr. Corliss' office at the Center for Behavioral Health in the morning. But now, there was the matter of transportation.

The Mercedes dealership began business at eight a.m. and Kathy deposited him there as the doors swung open. Within the hour, David had test-driven and leased a late model convertible not unlike the one he was certain had been pancaked halfway down the western slope of High Rock. He wanted to drive up to its cliffs but there were other more pressing things to do. His day had been mapped out. Perhaps tomorrow. A few streets away, he stopped to buy a new cellular phone for his hip, but he couldn't bear to replace Friday yet.

During the ride to the hospital, he focused not only on Bernie but also on Hollings' chief psychiatrist and psychiatrists in general. The field of medicine that produces the most suicides. What about murderers? And what's the call about? Something to do with "the best defense is a good offense"?

He was also concerned about time. He remembered his computer summaries. Bugles: Tuesday. Coughlin: Saturday. Tanarkle: Tuesday. Spritz: Saturday. It was nine o'clock Tuesday morning.

David didn't expect the sadness he felt when he came upon a virtually vacant doctors' parking lot where, at that hour, they normally jockeyed for spaces. From the outside, there was no doubt that the shutdown at Hollings General was underway, if not complete.

The inside looked like a school during summer vacation. He encountered no corridor greetings, heard no overhead paging, appreciated no medicinal smells. He marched directly to Sam Corliss' office, crossing the ramp to Rosen Hall.

"You got my message, David. Thank you for dropping by." As before, David sat on the edge of the recliner, the psychiatrist behind his desk, beneath Freud and Menninger. The psychiatrist's expression was one David couldn't be sure about. Strained? "I decided to speak to you after grappling with my conscience for two days now," Corliss said.

A confession? It should be so easy. I could go back to house calls.

"Remember my high-and-mighty talk about ethical canons?"

"Yes." Not a confession.

"Well, I want to admit to a touch of deception. I told you Victor Spritz's record was not in my file cabinet, indicating to you that I hadn't seen him professionally."

"Correct, I remember that."

"Well, there's the deception. His record wasn't in the cabinet. It was sitting on my desk." Corliss picked up a swollen folder. "Look at this-it's the thickest file I have."

David wasn't as fazed by the "deception" as he was curious about what would follow.

"I was really protecting my patient's confidentiality at the time, but it was a juvenile way of doing it. To relieve my anxiety over the impulse to show you the record, I repressed it with reaction-formation, a common psychological mechanism. And now that Victor's dead and has no relatives that I know of, I feel I can say, yes, he was a patient of mine."

A bit much? There's got to be more.

"And my description about the person with diffuse rage? That was Spritz to a tee. I wanted you to know that. Also, one other thing. A Nick Medicore, the chief of detectives downtown-he came in yesterday. He wanted to know if Charlie Bugles' son, Bernie, was ever a patient of mine."

"Was he?"

"No."

"No file in your cabinet, or on your desk. Or in your garage?"

David smirked but the psychiatrist laughed nervously, then said, "You're angry with me."

"No, I understand completely-just forcing a little levity before what will undoubtedly be another day loaded with my own brand of anxiety. Have you got any leftover reaction formations?" David's laugh was legitimate and he sensed Corliss' was, too.

"Incidentally, did the detective ask any more questions?"

"No, not really. He saw that I was between patients."

"Not even about Spritz?"

"No, it was pretty short and sweet."

David took out his pad. "Now then, Sam, fluke of all flukes, you called me, but I was about to call you. I have some questions to ask-more or less official. Is that okay?"

"Sure." The psychiatrist thrust up his hands, mimicking surrender. "But I didn't do it. I swear I didn't."

David was not amused but covered it with, "I don't think you did it … or them … either, but I've got to go through the motions with most everyone but the butler. And I'd have to include him, too, if hospitals had them." Corliss did appear amused.

"Do you own a motorcycle?"

Corliss hid a smile with his hand. "You're serious?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Then, a question first and the answer second. What would an old man like me be doing with a motorcycle? And, no, I don't and never did."

"Do you own any guns?"

"No."

"Good." David made a check on a blank page. "Next, and this might be harder because it was over three days ago, but can you recall what you were doing last Friday night?"

"Of course-not hard at all. I remember because that was the night our son and his wife and two children arrived from Cleveland. They're staying for a week."

"When did they arrive?"

"Oh, about suppertime."

"And you were home with them all night."

"Yes, we had lots of catching up to do."

David scratched behind his ear with one finger but kept his eyes fastened on Corliss' for a moment. "That's really all I have, Sam, thanks."

"And thanks to you for coming. I feel better."

"So do I."

David did his assessment thing on the walk to the Hole. Alibi seems sound. But all that gibberish about a guilty conscience? I don't know. He's either one terrific actor who's pulling out all the stops, or else he's terribly innocent. Terribly.

At the Hole, David was pleased to find his small base of operation had not been included in the shutdown. He hemmed and hawed as he offered Belle a stack of reasons why he shouldn't call Russ Selby, president of the Reliable Box Factory.

"Look, David honey," Belle said, frenzied, "people do it all the time. Sometimes, workers have to be called away. Phone the guy and ask if Robert can be spared for five minutes, for heaven's sake."

"But I don't want to jeopardize his job. Selby will think he's either very sick or in trouble with the law."

"No, he won't. First, Selby's your good friend, your classmate. Second and third, he knows Robert's father was hacked to death, and he knows five minutes of an employee's time is a drop in the bucket. Fourth, this is no big deal, really, so why are we discussing it?"

"I'm glad we came to an obvious conclusion," David said, pumping his fist in the air. "Get him on the phone."