Peter Clement - The Inquisitor

He chose a corner table and had downed two cups by the time Michael slid into the seat opposite him.

"So what's the deal?" Earl said without ceremony.

"Artie Baxter died of a cardiac arrest. You were there. That's what it says on the form."

"You didn't mention the fact he came in unconscious from hypoglycemia."

"That's not the cause of death."

"It's the cause of the cause, Michael. Don't kid around with me."

He shrugged. "That could be one opinion."

"Well, here's another. That story of his, that he took his normal dose of insulin, then got too busy to eat, stank like three-day-old fish. I think he deliberately tried to check out, using insulin. As to why, I don't know for sure, but I bet you do. Mrs. Baxter is pretty forthright about Artie's lousy investment skills. So what happened? He became suicidal after getting in over his head with the stock market? And you hid that little fact so a pretty young widow could still collect his insurance?"

Michael's expression hardened. "Her being pretty had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, yeah? Then where were you Monday night? Not ER, where Donna said you'd be." On the fly, he decided to take a big leap, in the hope of provoking an outburst of truth. "What's going on, Michael? You into consoling widows?"

Michael's face reddened until it resembled a beet with a beard. "If you weren't my friend…" He clenched his fist. "Just stay out of this, Earl. It's not what you think."

"Then change my thinking."

Michael exhaled, the way he'd done in his smoking days, as if intent on expelling the last traces of air in his lungs. His fingers uncoiled. "She needed the money. It's not her fault her husband tried to check out. And he did have chest pain that he ignored, like a lot of men we see who don't make it, and they still get the insurance. So Where's the harm?"

"It's fraud. If that company asks to see the original chart-"

"They'll see my note that describes exactly what happened in ER. An insulin-dependent diabetic male arrives comatose, receives glucose, wakes up, arrests, and dies. Wife says he'd been complaining for days of chest pain that he blamed on indigestion- amen. And not a fraudulent statement anywhere."

"What if they ask you why you didn't mention the coma on the insurance claim? And if they also read the nurses' notes, they'll see that cockamamie story of his about the insulin. Just because you didn't spell it out doesn't mean they won't put it together, just like we did."

"Bullshit. Once they get a doctor's signature, they never ask for nursing notes unless they suspect something's not kosher."

"What do you mean never? You've done this before?"

"Of course not."

But he'd taken a second too long in answering.

"Have you ever had an insurance company challenge your ruling on a cause of death, let alone go so far as to demand nurses' notes for corroboration?" he asked, barely skipping a beat.

No, he hadn't. But Earl couldn't shake the feeling of being fed a lie.

"And don't tell me you never fudged a form," Michael continued. "Left out a detail that might have torpedoed a claim, stood over a corpse that had tobacco-stained fingers and ticked the 'don't know' box in answer to the question 'Has patient smoked in the last year?'"

Again Earl couldn't disagree. Every doctor knew the drill: don't outright lie, but don't hand the adjusters an outright gift either. What made this case dirty was the blatancy of the omission and if the doctor got any favors in return.

Michael stood up to leave. "So we're square?" he said, as if the matter were closed. "Now I'm going home to sleep."

Earl decided to try a more delicate approach. "You look as if you haven't had a good rest in months, Michael. Something's been eating you up- has been for a while now- and don't tell me again that it's just that you're tired or worried about SARS. Even when we get together for dinner or take the kids out somewhere, there are moments when you get a look in your eyes that's a million miles away. Hell, I've even seen Terry looking at you funny, wondering what's wrong. And you wouldn't have come all the way down here if this thing with Artie Baxter's insurance form was as innocent as you claim. So let's cut the bullshit. I want to know what's going on."

His friend leaned on the back of the chair he'd just vacated and towered over Earl. "You know, I liked you better when you were just chief of ER and mad at everyone else who ran the place."

"This place? The Horseshoe?"

Michael laughed. The smile looked good on him, and for a few seconds the craggy landscape of his face softened. Then he leaned closer, grinned wider, and his expression hardened. "Since they made you VP, medical, you've been getting in more trouble than ever. Oh, excuse me, make that suspended VP, medical."

"This isn't about me, Michael."

His grin vanished. "It sure is. Because I'm betting my good friend Earl won't go around making accusations about me and widows that would upset the hell out of my wife. And for my good friend's information, SARS is why I'm losing sleep. It's wrecking the shit out of my marriage. Donna's so scared I'll bring it home to Terry, she's thinking of moving to her mother's with him. So I'm also counting on my good friend to give his long-trusted pal Michael the benefit of the doubt and not pry into matters that are best left alone. Now I'm going back home to bed." He started toward the door.

"Michael, damn it, you can't do this to me." Earl threw a few dollars on the table and ran after him. "Tell me what the hell you've gotten into-"

Michael spun around and jabbed an index finger that felt like an iron pipe into Earl's chest. "Something that needs doing, understand! For God's sake, harness that righteous bloodhound streak of yours and quit fucking with the good guys!"

Stung, Earl took a step back. "The good guys?"

"Yeah. The ones whom you've seen fit to rag lately. Stewart, now me, even Father Jimmy."

"Jimmy told you that?"

Michael nodded. "Trust me, you don't want to pursue any of it."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He opened his mouth to reply, seemed to think better of it, and turned toward the exit, walking stiffly, his shoulders rigid. At the blackened doors he paused and peered back at Earl. "Just remember, we're all trying to do our best." Transient as a blink, the bulky posture of Michael's upper body bunched up and reminded Earl of an animal, hunched over and about to charge, warning off an intruder. It looked so out of character that Michael might have been some stranger standing there. Then he was gone.

I had only allowed myself to remember the dream while alone.

It helped keep me invisible.

That would be more critical than ever now.

Because the dream had changed.

I walked into the lab as usual.

The water sprayed down from the broken pipes.

But when I looked up at his face, the swollen tongue lashed to and fro, angry as a trapped snake. The engorged lips pulled back in a swollen leer. The black orifice mouthed, "Do it!"

Death rounds had been the tipping point- my stage perfectly set.

If I acted quickly now, with everyone primed, they'd all draw the logical conclusion.

One, two, three, and I'd be free.

First the suicide.

Then Graceton. My perfect dry run had left no doubt about her fate.

And finally, if grief didn't stop Garnet, I'd do it myself.

And everybody would be fooled.

One, two, three…

The little ditty kept running through my head as I prepared the chloroform, then gathered up what else I'd need for the night's work.

Wednesday, July 16, 4:40 p.m.

Stewart woke with a start, only to hear a loud roll of thunder slowly die out.

Outside his bedroom window a gray fog thick as flannel cut the light and made it seem dusk, but a glance at the glowing figures on his digital alarm clock surprised him. An afternoon storm must have blown in, he thought, getting up to close the windows. But the air, much cooler now, held a pleasant scent that reminded him of fresh laundry, so he left everything open.