Linda Fairstein - Likely To Die

“Just a lesson to you, Mr. Chapman. If you get knocked about the head, be sure you get yourself to Ghajar’s trauma unit.”

“Was Spector right, though, about Gemma’s interests? Was brain injury her major focus?”

“Not so. Not at all. It interested her enormously but almost like a diversion. She was quite an intellectual, as I am sure you realize by now. Sounds a bit gruesome to talk like this to laypeople, but she was far more curious about the pathology of brain illness. What is it that actually causes tumors to develop? What is the effect on one’s DNA when there are tumors? Is it altered or mutated? Gemma was enormously satisfied when she could unscramble the brain of someone who had been in an accident or suffered a grave wound, but she was far more challenged by the surgical demands of a rare tumor or blood clot.”

I opened the case folder that rested on the table next to my legal pad, lifting some of the police reports from within it.

“Ever met Robert Spector?” Chapman asked.

“On a few occasions.”

“Think he hated Gemma enough to-”

You could hear Geoffrey’s intake of breath as he cut Mike off midquestion. “Every profession has its jealousies and political infighting, Mr. Chapman. I’m giving you as candid a picture as I can of the people in Gemma’s world, but I’d say that none of them disliked her enough to cause her any physical harm. Most of them had to be aware that she’d be out of their hair in a matter of months, I’m quite sure.”

“Because she was returning to London?”

“In all likelihood.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Well, she had the offer, you see. And she said she’d let the university know by the end of this month. There was some unfinished business she had to take care of before she could give them her word.”

“Not even you knew?”

“I wasn’t the one making the offer. She had no reason to tell me officially. Yes, I assumed she’d be coming back here by the next term, if somewhat reluctantly. But she had no cause to tellme by any deadline. I assumed she was simply finishing the academic year and just devilishly teasing Spector and the other people in administration who were so anxious to see the back of her. Sort of Gemma’s last stand, if you will.”

There was a knock on the door and Creavey moved to open it. A white-gloved young man had appeared to announce that lunch had been set up in an adjacent room, should we be able to take a short break. I thanked him and told him we were about ready to do that.

“We can go over some of the statements and photographs after we’ve given you a breather, Dr. Dogen,” Chapman said, rising from his chair and rubbing his fingers over the lids of his bloodshot eyes.

“I just wanted to run through a few of the names of Gemma’s colleagues. Some of the information we’ve gotten seems to conflict with what others say. If you recognize any of these, perhaps you can tell us who the good guys are, who we can trust.”

Creavey and Chapman were staring out the window, looking over the pool and pavilion area while I read from a list to Geoffrey Dogen. He was familiar with some of the professors whose offices lined the hallway near Gemma’s, as he was with most of the people in administrative posts, and I checked their names off with a red pen to come back to ask about later on. There was no recognition of the younger doctors, residents, and fellows-even those who had been drawn into the investigation-until I hit on the name of John DuPre.

Dogen looked at me quizzically. “Did that old codger come out of hibernation to teach at Minuit? Hard to believe that Gemma never mentioned it to me.”

Chapman turned. “You know DuPre?”

“I can’t say that I know him very well, but I did attend a course at which he taught-just a two-week seminar, it was, in Geneva. Let me see-Lord, it must be more than twenty-five years ago. I think he was close to retirement at that point. What is he, nearly ninety now?”

I laughed. “Wrong guy. This one’s only forty-two.”

“Also a neurologist?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, perhaps he’s the son, or the grandson. Do you know where he went to medical school?”

I looked at the DD5 to refresh myself. “Tulane.”

“Can’t be a coincidence. That’s where old Johnny DuPre went as well. Those are some shoes this chap’s got to fill. Johnny was one of the finest practitioners in the field-a genius, really. Became something of a recluse a while ago. Moved to Mississippi -Port Gibson, if I’m not mistaken.”

The military historian in Chapman piped up, “The town too beautiful for General Sherman to burn. Spared it, you know?”

I didn’t. I was closing up my files as Creavey held the door open for us to leave the conference room.

Dogen was still focused on DuPre. He seemed animated by the memory of the distinguished lecturer. “It was quite an ordeal for a young doctor like me to try to understand neurological details from a man with the thickest southern accent I’d ever encountered. Should have had a translator for us, really. And he had this fabulous shock of bright red hair, matched by his beard. Not a speck of gray in it, even in his sixties.”

“Bright red hair,” I mused. “Probably not related. Our John DuPre is an African-American.”

“Well, then, thatis quite an odd coincidence. He can’t be John J. D. DuPre, as the old doc liked to introduce himself. John Jefferson Davis DuPre.”

I pulled the cord off the folder and slipped out the DD5 again. Interview of John J. D. DuPre, M/B/42.

“Let’s go, Blondie. I’m famished.”

“I’ll meet you inside. I just want to call Mercer before he leaves for work and ask him to check something out for us.” I couldn’t imagine that there were a lot of southern black men named for the president of the Confederacy.

Chapman’s mind was squarely set on the luncheon feast that had been spread out in the room next to us, which I passed on my way to find the nearest telephone from which I could access an overseas line.

At the moment, all I could think about was the note that had been slipped under the door of my apartment on Sunday evening one week ago.CAREFUL. IT’S NOT ALL BLACK AND WHITE. DEADLY MISTAKE.

Had someone been trying to alert me to a fact that Geoffrey Dogen just inadvertently made clear to me? Was John DuPre not the man he claimed to be?

Mercer answered on the second ring.

SAVED YOU SOME QUAIL’S EGGS IN haddock-and-cheese sauce. The Commander says it’s not to be missed.“

“I’ll pass.”

“Steak-and-kidney pie?”

“The waiter’s bringing me some grilled sole. Dover.” We all took a break from the case as Dogen and Creavey lectured us on the local sights and Cliveden myths. After tea was served, I tried to get Mike out of earshot of Geoffrey to explain my call to Mercer. He was holding one of the Cliveden luncheon menus, passing it to me and telling me to put it in my folder to take back to the States.

“Did you see this? Can you believe they serve a dessert called ‘spotted dick’? I gotta take one of those back for Mercer and the guys in Sex Crimes.”

“I’m really proud of how well you’re maturing-something kept you from sharing that thought, as they say, with Dr. Dogen.”

I told Mike that I’d asked Mercer to check on DuPre’s credentials and reminded him that the neurologist had been one of the doctors checking on Maureen while she was at Mid-Manhattan.

Geoffrey Dogen and I walked the short distance back to our workroom and resumed our places around the table while Chapman and Creavey went to the men’s room. I had resisted the urge, in Mike’s presence, to ask Dogen whether he remembered the circumstance of Carla Renaud’s death in a London operating room a couple of years ago. But as we were alone, I quietly asked the question that had been gnawing at me.