Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

“Uh-huh,” he said. Long pause. “Have you got a research grant on this?”

“Not yet, just some preliminary seed money. Whether or not we apply for full funding depends on how the data base shapes up. If we do write a proposal it would be as a collaborative effort — the target sites, plus us. We’d carry all the overhead, would just need access to facts and figures.”

He chuckled. “We give you our stats and you put our names on any papers you write?”

“That would be part of it, but we’d always be open to scientific input.”

“What med school was that?”

I told him.

“Uh-huh.” Another laugh. “Well, I guess that would be pretty attractive, if I still cared about that kind of thing. But yeah, sure, I guess you can put our names down, for the time being — conditionally, no commitment. Got to check it with Colonel Hedgeworth, though, before I finalize anything.”

“When will he be back?”

He laughed again. “ She’ll be back in a couple of days. Give me your number.”

I gave him my home exchange, saying, “That’s a private line, easier to reach.”

“And what was your name?”

“Delaware.”

“Like in the state?”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re with Pediatrics?”

“Yes,” I said. Technically true, but I hoped he wouldn’t delve too deeply and find out I had a clinical appointment but hadn’t lectured in years.

“Fine,” he said. “Get back to you soon as I can. If you don’t hear from me in, say, a week — call back.”

“Will do, Major. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“In the meantime, though, if you could give me one bit of information, I’d appreciate it.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you recall any epidemics of either influenza or pneumonia at your base during the last ten years?”

“Ten years? Hmm. I haven’t been here that long. We did have a meningitis outbreak a couple of years ago, but that was bacterial. Very nasty.”

“We’re limiting the inquiry to viral respiratory illnesses.”

“Well,” he said, “I guess the information’s somewhere — hold on.”

Two minutes passed.

“Captain Katz, how can I help you?”

I repeated my request.

“That far back wouldn’t be on our computer,” he said. “Can I get back to you on that?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Another exchange of numbers.

I put the receiver down, clogged with frustration, knowing the information was on someone’s hard drive or floppy disc, accessible, instantly, at the push of the right button.

Milo didn’t call back until four.

“Been trying to keep up with your Joneses,” he said. “The coroner has a death form on file for the first kid. Charles Lyman Jones the Fourth. Nothing suspicious — sudden infant death syndrome, certified by your friend Stephanie and backed up by a Rita Kohler, M.D.”

“She’s the head of the General Pediatrics division. Stephanie’s boss. She was originally their doctor, was out of town when Chad died.”

“Uh-huh. Well, it all looks kosher. Now, in terms of the parents, here’s what I’ve got so far. They live out in the West Valley and pay their property taxes on time — lots of taxes, cause they own lots of property. Fifty parcels.”

“Fifty? Where?”

“Right where they live — the entire surrounding tract is theirs. Not bad for a college teacher, huh?”

“College teacher with a trust fund.”

“No doubt. Other than that, they seem to live pretty simple and straight. Charles Lyman the Third drives a 1985 Volvo 240 four-door, received a speeding ticket last year and two parking citations, all paid. Cindy Brooks Jones drives a Plymouth Voyager van and is pure as the driven snow, infraction-wise. Ditto your surly nurse, if she’s Victoria June Bottomley, DOB 4/24/36, with an address in Sun Valley.”

“Sounds like her.”

“So far, Beaver Cleaverland.”

“You obviously didn’t get my message.”

“No. When and where?”

“Around eleven. I left it with Rick’s sister.”

“I didn’t get any emergency call.”

“That’s ’cause I did a one beeper,” I said. “Respecting your business procedures.” I recounted the suspicions my talk with Cindy had aroused and my call to South Carolina.

“Joe Sleuth,” he said. “Just can’t control yourself.”

“Hey, with your fees, I figured anything I could do myself would be a bargain.”

He grunted. “ Knowing me is a bargain. Pneumonia, huh? So what’re you saying? Her lungs clog, it messes her plans up, so she fucks up her kids’ lungs — whatchacallit, projecting?”

“Something like that. On top of that, she was trained in respiratory therapy.”

“Then why would she move away from respiratory stuff? Why the stomach problems and the seizures?”

“I don’t know, but the facts remain: Lung sickness disrupted her life. And/or gave her a lot of attention.”

“So she passed it on to the kids in order to get more attention for herself? Or got mad at being sick and took it out on the kids?”

“Either. Neither. Both. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just blowing air — no pun intended.”

“That comment about being nuts. You think she suspects she’s under watch?”

“It’s possible. Or maybe she was just playing around with me. She’s on edge, but who wouldn’t be, with a child constantly sick? That’s the problem with this whole case — anything I see can be explained several different ways. What does stick in my mind is the way she blushed and fiddled with her hair when she talked about the army. I’m wondering if the pneumonia story could be a cover for a psychiatric discharge or something else she doesn’t want coming out. I’m hoping the army can confirm it, one way or the other.”

“When’s the army gonna call you back?”

“The guy I spoke to didn’t commit himself. Said their health records that far back aren’t computerized. Would health data be included in the military data banks Charlie’s hacked into?”

“Don’t know, but I’ll ask him.”

“Thanks.”

“How’s the baby doing?”

“Full recovery. No neurological problems that would have caused her to seize. Stephanie wants to watch her for a day or two. Mom says she wouldn’t mind going home, but makes no effort to push it — Miss Compliant, doctor knows all. She’s also claiming Cassie’s talking more since I met her. She’s certain it’s something I did.”

“The old kiss-up?”

“Munchausen moms are notorious for it — the staff generally loves them.”

“Well,” he said, “enjoy it while it lasts. You dig up some dirt on this lady, she’s not gonna be kissing you anywhere.”

After he hung up, I took the mail, the morning paper, and a month’s worth of bills to a deli in West L.A. The place was nearly full — old people hunched over soup, young families with small children, two uniformed policemen at the rear joshing with the owner, mountainous sandwiches sharing table space with their walkie-talkies.

I sat at the corner table at the front, to the left of the counter, and had smoked turkey on onion roll, cole slaw, and Dr. Brown’s CelRay soda.

Good stuff, but hospital thoughts intruded on my digestion.

At 9:00 P.M. I decided to go back to the hospital for an unscheduled visit. See how Mrs. Charles Lyman Jones the Third reacted to that.

Black night; the shadows on Sunset seemed to be moving in slow motion and the boulevard turned spooky nearer to the good side of town. After a few miles of hollow eyes, Thorazine shuffles, and scary motels, Western Peds’s child-shaped logo and brightly lit Emergency Room arrow signaled a welcome outpost.