Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

David uploaded new material into his computer, not only to stay current but also-typing slowly, hopping back and forth to previous entries-attempting to hit upon a magic solution to the puzzle of murder and drugs. Again, he saw the pattern of Tuesday/Saturday in print, but he wove no magic.

He picked up a stack of Polaroids by the side of the computer and flipped through them. The bottom one was the rear shot of the red Honda motorcycle in the hospital parking lot. He had looked at the picture before but only in passing. He now thought its tire was too narrow for a chunky tread design, and that its overall appearance was that of an early model, perhaps one of the earliest. There was no fender, no saddlebags or backrest or luggage rack. But he noticed a blue Connecticut license plate and some words on plastic strips above and below it. He reached into his desk drawer for a small magnifying glass. The words read, "One Day At A Time."

It had always been one of David's favorite sayings-trite but good, he believed-and often therapeutic for his patients. One day at a time. But somehow he hated to see the expression on the back end of a motorcycle that was quite likely connected to murder.

Bruno Bateman's martial arts studio was never over-crowded fifteen minutes prior to the beginning of evening classes.

David found him sitting at his desk off the main gym. His was more of a cage than an office, its walls composed of wire mesh, corkboard and posters of men and women acting out various judo moves.

"Hi Bruno, what's happening?"

"Hey there, glad you came tonight. You need some time off, I'll bet. Rid your system of bad energy and all the … " David had heard the sermons on the balance between good and bad energies many times before, and he would have interrupted even if he weren't prone to stepping on people's words.

"Will Robert Bugles be here, do you know?"

"No, I don't. But as long as you asked, I think I'd better mention something. He came to me last week and wanted to brush up on karate-chops and the old two-knuckler. That's fine, I thought. But when he asked about atemiwaza, I got concerned. Self-defense? Okay. But striking to kill? That's different. I don't know if he plans to use it, but I thought you should be aware of it."

Once again, David still-framed in his mind. This time the scene was that of Victor Spritz-an overkilled Victor Spritz riddled by bullets and bruised about the neck.

His voice quivered when he thanked the Grand Master and, striding to the locker room, he quickened his pace in anticipation of finding Robert there. Suddenly the matter of the burned safe was not a burning issue.

But he didn't find him there, nor had Robert arrived at five-fifteen when David decided to validate his suspicion in a different way. He reached for the cellular phone at his hip when he felt its ring.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Brooks?"

"Yes."

"This is Detective Paul Johnson. Kathy Dupre asked me to …"

"Yes, I know. Thanks for your assistance, Paul."

"He just arrived."

"Bernie?"

"He just now walked in. Kathy gave me a photo of him. He didn't spot me, of course. You want me to remain here?"

"Yes, yes, by all means. He may be our murderer, Paul. I'm leaving shortly and should arrive there at-" He pointed at the numbers on his watch and calculated-"at eight, eight-thirty. Keep me posted." David punched the "Off" button and reclipped the phone to his belt.

He felt momentarily cemented to the floor, now torn between following up on Bruno's disclosure or dashing to New York City again. He chose to check out Robert first.

He ripped the cellular from his belt and obtained the home phone number of Hollings' acting chief pathologist from the hospital operator.

"Hello, Jake? Sorry to bother you at home, but where's the body?"

"Whose body?"

"Victor Spritz, who else?"

David arranged to have a portable x-ray machine rolled into Albright's Funeral Home at five-forty-five. The technician was to take front and lateral views of Spritz's cervical spine.

Thirty minutes later, David and Dr. Jake Reed waited in the hospital's Radiology viewing room for the films to develop.

"More than once, I've seen severe injuries with complete dislocations and cord compression," Jake said, "and death or quadriplegia-delivered by so-called karate experts who miscalculated. In this particular case, the satellite bruises above the linear one looked like the result of a karate-chop but I couldn't say for sure. And as you probably remember, the bony column felt in line when I palpated it."

"Maybe we should have taken a picture of it then and there."

Jake continued as if deaf to David's aside. "I can tell you one thing, though. If there was a bona-fide karate-chop, one of those cervical vertebrae is partially dislocated on the other. And, if not, then the bruising was a result of thumb compression or some such thing. Certainly not a chop."

The technician burst into the room with four films. David snapped them onto the viewing box. He read them as negative: no karate-chop.

Back at the Hole, David called Kathy. "I don't have time to elaborate right now, Kath, but Robert is clean and our man is Bernie Bugles. I'm leaving for New York in a few minutes to bring him back."

"Not so fast, now," Kathy said. "Think of the legalities. What about your authority to bring him back? Have you thought about that?"

"I have, and I've got it."

"You've got it?"

"Yeah, I'm bigger than he is." David left no room for comment. "What I'll do is haul him in and you make the arrest."

"Forget it, we'll issue an arrest warrant. That's simpler."

"Kath, I've come this far and I want to bring him in myself. Play it my way, okay? If he eludes me, God forbid, issue the warrant."

"Then I'm going with you. No-we're going with you. I'm calling Nick."

"I can handle it."

"David, I'll only worry about you. We're coming along," she said, sternly.

He weighed the pros and cons of Kathy's decision. "Okay, you're the law," he groused, like a man complaining that rain was wet. "I'm here at the hospital. How long will it take for you to get here?"

"I'll ring Nick right now-hope he's home. Half an hour?"

"I'll be out front."

In the interim, David sat at his desk, reflecting on Robert's request of Bruno, odd under the circumstances, he thought. Buttressed, however, by Dr. Jake Reed's opinion that no karate-chop had been levied against Spritz, he eventually interpreted the request as Robert's way of asking for a total self-defense package, not realizing how deadly atemiwaza could be.

David was tempted to call Robert not only to inform him he was picking up his brother on suspicion of murder but also because, in so doing, he would be absolving him of culpability. Deep down, David felt a strange sense of relief that final arrows pointed away from Robert. For some time, he believed the box company shipping clerk was the odd man out in a global narcotics enterprise and deserved to be left alone, not subjected to the same scrutiny as Bernie or Spritz.

Yet, he reasoned, the blood of a half brother is still thicker than water. David fretted that Robert would tip off Bernie about his departure. So the dilemma was how to inform him and, at the same time, prevent him from warning Bernie. Solution? Ask him along.

After consulting the phone directory, he called his home. "I have some news for you, Robert. It's not about you personally, I assure you, but it's the kind of thing best handled in person. Any chance of our getting together, say, in your parking lot out back?"

"Right now?"

"Right now. It's that important. I can be there in ten minutes."

David filled the silence with a flash forward of either Kathy's or Nick's car trailing his to Manhattan. They'd better keep up, but I'm not about to help.