Peter Clement - Mortal Remains

The thought sickened her. Because they would learn what she’d kept secret all these years, then come asking questions. Just the fact she hadn’t told would look bad, perhaps be enough to make her a suspect – all because she had met with Kelly McShane on the day of her disappearance.

The University Club,

Midtown Manhattan

“Shit!” Dr. Charles Braden IV threw down the paper, spilling his orange juice and knocking the glass to the floor. He signaled the waiter. “Pedro, I want more coffee, now.”

Sitting across from him, Dr. Charles Braden III frowned. “Chaz, what’s the matter?”

Chaz shoved the article at his father, then leaned back. The older man’s handsome face remained as calm as if he were reading a weather report. Not even his posture gave any clue as to what the discovery of Kelly’s remains could mean to the family, his lean physique still seemingly relaxed.

After skimming the article for a few seconds, he shot his son a withering look. “Now that’s just perfect, Chaz. Yes, by all means, get mad. And where everyone can see, too.”

“Shall I bring you a fresh cup, sir?” the slim, black-haired waiter asked, dropping a white napkin over the stain and cleaning away any splashed dishes. Pedro didn’t see himself as a mere waiter. He was the protector of the propriety of the members he served. The greater the indiscretion, the more Pedro made sure his customers knew that they owed him big-time, but tantrums he handled with minimal fuss.

Chaz looked around at the other members who were finishing up their breakfasts. The paneled dining room was only half-full. Dim recessed lighting and lush plants strategically positioned in front of the dining alcoves guarded everyone’s privacy almost as much as Pedro did. No one had so much as glanced his way.

But that would change.

Gossipmongers would soon be watching his every move.

Just like before.

And like before, they’d try to pin Kelly’s murder on him, only then it was just her disappearance.

“I’d advise you to remain cool,” his father continued, carefully placing the paper on the table. He leaned back, the thick bristles of his steely gray hair glistening silver under the light. “After all, we knew this was coming. They did let us know about finding her remains and about the forensic report. You’ve had time to prepare yourself.” At seventy-four, the man could still sear his son’s soul with that hard blue stare of his.

He couldn’t go through it again, the police once more poring over every detail of Kelly’s final days, probing, digging, questioning. He’d be right back in the nightmare, living in fear of a knock on the door, a phone call, a newscast. Chaz ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. “How can I stay cool?”

Charles Braden leaned forward and flashed the smile that made the world jump to his wishes. “By never forgetting that you’re innocent. By remembering the police cleared you back then. By knowing I’ve already reminded a few key people in the NYPD of that fact. Trust me, they’ll be looking for someone else.”

“What about the media?” he asked.

“I can make a few calls to them as well. So stop looking so morose. As far as police and reporters go, I think you’ll be pretty much left alone.”

Long ago Chaz had tried to emulate his father’s easy charm in getting people to do what he wanted, but he learned at an early age that he was lousy at it. He got better results by using raw power, and that only worked within the walls of the hospital. Even there he didn’t have his father’s facile ability to succeed as a doctor and reach the inner circles of power. He was a drudge. Hard work and long hours had won him the position of Chief of Cardiology. The one category where he held his own was in physical presence. He, too, was tall and thin; people noticed when he walked into a room.

Pedro returned with an oversize cup filled with a particularly strong brew. Chaz thanked him, and doctored it with sugar only. To his disgust he saw his hand tremble slightly as he took a sip. “I won’t be left alone if they find out I was the last one to talk with Kelly.”

St. Paul’s Hospital,

Buffalo, New York.

Finally, the presentations were over. At this point Earl usually fired off a few pointed questions to drive home any teaching pearls. Today he felt more like firing off a machine gun. After a few uninspired attempts to come up with some zingers, he called it quits. His audience left, muttering in frustration, and a few of his staff gave him what’s-the-matter-with-you looks.

All he could think of was, Who? Who had done this to Kelly? Some stranger? Her husband?

He tried to see patients, but the parade of faces and stories blurred into one another. As for his clinical responses, only the reflexes from twenty-four years’ experience saw him through.

“… Prilosec, Flagyl, and Biaxin ought to do the trick…”

“… an ECG, blood gas, and nuclear scan of his lungs for starters…”

“… albuterol by aerosol and IV steroids…”

He kept wondering if Chaz Braden had killed her after all. Yet why him, when he could have divorced her, ruined her burgeoning career, gotten back at her any number of ways? He continued to pummel himself with questions, sadness pulling him inside out one second, outrage filling him like a balloon the next.

Well practiced at putting on his “everything is fine” face for his patients and troops during the worst of cases, he could feel the tightly contracted muscles of his jaw and knew he looked drawn and tense. “What a lousy actor, you are,” he muttered, disgusted with the pale imitation of his usual take-charge presence, knowing he shouldn’t continue to work with his mind in such a tumult. “Can you cover for me?” he asked Dr. Michael Popovitch, his portly second-in-command, and one of his closest friends.

Michael looked up from a cut hand he was suturing and eyed Earl over a pair of bifocals. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Of course. I’ve got some personal business to take care of.”

“Go to it.”

Earl walked quickly to his office, where he could steady himself in private. He flopped into the high-backed chair and ran his fingers through his gray hair. The steady shush of the air ducts in the tiled ceiling pressed in on him.

Away from the distractions of ER, he felt the initial numbing effect of the news subside as the slower, crawling emotions of grief took over. A tightness in his gut crept up to his chest, and sadness, no longer alternating with an urge to pistol-whip Kelly’s killer, overwhelmed him. Its intensity surprised him; he’d not thought about Kelly for years. Perhaps the reaction felt so strong because he’d always told himself she was thriving somewhere, happy with a career, a man, maybe kids. That’s how he’d imagined her when he first started to shut her out of his thoughts so that he could get on with his life and how she had remained until today, sealed up in rarely visited memories, but alive. Now her murder seemed fresh and recent-

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

Susanne poked her head around the door. “Sorry, Dr. Garnet. We just got two ambulances from a three-car pileup on the ninety and another’s on the way. Michael says he apologizes, but can you come?”

Michael wouldn’t have had him called unless he was really needed. “I’ll be right along.”

Getting to his feet, he felt heavy, as if walking underwater. He heard a siren in the distance coming closer by the second, and his heart quickened. No matter how many years he’d had in the pit, that sound always got his adrenaline pumping. Rushing through the hallway toward triage, he tried to clear his mind for the work ahead, only to have more questions intrude.