Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall Page 9

  started to close the drawer, then stopped. "Oh, Doctor, look."

  Setting the jewelry box on the bed, she reached back into the

  drawer. "My mother kept her mother's old black hat for sentimental

  reasons. Edna must have done the same thing."

  She was holding up an object for him to see. It was a scuffed

  brown moccasin, shaped for the left foot.

  As Dr. Highley stared at the shoe, Katie said, "This was probably

  her mother's and she considered it such a treasure she kept

  it with that pathetic jewelry. Oh, Doctor, if memorabilia could

  talk, we'd hear a lot of stories, wouldn't we?"

  EDGAR HIGHLEY STARED AT KATIE DEMAIO as she stood there

  holding that shoe in her hand. Was she mocking him? No. She

  believed that the shoe had had some sentimental meaning for

  Edna. Suppose she showed it to the detectives? Or to Gertrude?

  She'd been at the desk many times when Vangie came in.

  He had to have that shoe.

  Katie put it back, closed the drawer and walked out of the bedroom,

  the jewelry box tucked under her arm. He followed her,

  desperate to hear what she would say. But she simply handed

  the jewelry box to the detective. "The ring and pin are here,

  Charley," she said. "I guess that shoots any possibility of burglary."

  There was a rap at the door, and Katie opened it to admit two

  men carrying a stretcher. Edgar Highley said to Gertrude, "I'll

  get you more water, Mrs. Fitzgerald." The others were watching

  the attendants as they lifted the body. It was his chance. He had to

  risk taking the shoe.

  He walked rapidly to the bathroom, turned on the tap, then

  slipped across the hall to the bedroom. Using his handkerchief to

  avoid fingerprints, he opened the night-table drawer. He was

  reaching for the shoe when he heard footsteps coming down the

  hall. Quickly he pushed the drawer shut, stuffed his handkerchief

  into his pocket, and was standing at the door of the bedroom when

  Richard Carroll appeared. "Dr. Highley," he said coldly, "I'd like

  to ask you a few questions about Edna Burns."

  "Certainly." Then, in what he hoped was a casual tone, Highley

  said, "Excuse me. I'm letting the tap run. I want to get Mrs. Fitzgerald

  a glass of cold water. The poor woman's terribly distressed."

  Richard Carroll stood aside to let him pass. Highley filled the

  glass and took it to Gertrude. The attendants had left with the

  body, and Katie DeMaio was not in the room.

  "Has Mrs. DeMaio left?" he asked the detective.

  "She's talking to the super's wife. She'll be right back."

  He could not leave until he was sure that Katie did not talk

  about the shoe. When she came back a few minutes later, she did

  not mention it.

  They left the apartment together. Deliberately he stayed with

  Katie as she walked to her car, but then Richard Carroll joined

  them. "Let's get some coffee at the Golden Valley diner, Katie,"

  he said, and Highley watched them drive off.

  On his way home, Edgar Highley decided there must be a personal

  relationship between Katie DeMaio and Richard Carroll.

  When Katie bled to death, Carroll would be both professionally

  and emotionally interested in the cause of death. He would have

  to be very careful.

  He drove into his garage, then entered the house. The cold lamb

  chops were on the plate; the asparagus had wilted; the salad was

  limp and warm. He would reheat the food in the microwave oven,

  prepare a fresh salad.

  As he set to work, he found himself becoming calm. He was

  so near to being safe. And soon it would be possible to share his

  genius with the world. He already had his success. He could prove

  it beyond doubt. He had accurate records, pictures, X rays, the

  step-by-step accounts of how he had dealt with all the problems

  that had arisen. All in the files in his secret safe.

  When the proper time came, he would burn the files on the

  failures and claim the recognition that was due him. By then there

  would surely be more triumphs. He sat down at the table and

  slowly ate his dinner. As always, food restored his sense of wellbeing.

  Tomorrow the Newsmaker article would appear. It would

  enhance his social as well as his medical prestige.

  "My patients are not allowed to drink or smoke during their

  pregnancies," he had told the Newsmaker interviewer. "They are

  required to follow a specific diet. I will not accept a patient who

  will not cooperate with my methods. I can show you dozens of

  women I have treated who have had a history of several miscarriages

  but now have children. Many more could experience that

  same joy, if they were willing to change their habits, particularly

  their eating and drinking habits."

  The Newsmaker reporter had been impressed. But her next

  question was a loaded one. "Doctor, isn't it true that a large number

  of women have miscarried, even after following your schedule

  rigidly—and paying you ten thousand dollars?"

  "It would be insane for me to claim that I bring every difficult

  pregnancy to term. Yes. There have been occasions where a de

  sired pregnancy was spontaneously aborted. After several of these

  occurrences, I suggest that my patient adopt a child, and I help

  to arrange a suitable adoption."

  "For a fee."

  "Young woman, I assume you are being paid to interview me.

  Why don't you use your time for volunteer work?"

  It had been foolish to antagonize her, foolish to give her any

  reason to want to discredit him or to delve into his background.

  The interviewer's next question had been meant to entrap him.

  "Doctor, you also perform abortions. Isn't it incongruous to try

  to save one fetus and to eliminate another?"

  "I refer to the womb as a cradle. I despise abortion. But I also

  deplore the grief I witness when women come to me who cannot

  conceive because their wombs have been damaged during abortions.

  It is my wish that all women carry their babies to term.

  For those who do not want to, at least I can make sure that when

  they do want a child, they will still be able to have one."

  That point had been well received.

  He finished eating, leaned back in the chair and poured himself

  more wine. He was feeling expansive. Tomorrow morning he had

  a cesarean section scheduled—another difficult case that would

  add to his reputation. The mother was from the socially prominent

  Payne family. The father, Delano Aldrich, was an officer of a prestigious

  foundation. This was the sort of family whose championship

  he needed.

  Only one obstacle left. He had brought Katie DeMaio's file home

  from the office. He would begin now to prepare the substitute file

  that he would show to the police after her death.

  Instead of the history she'd given him of prolonged periods of

  bleeding, he would write, "Patient complains of frequent hemorrhaging,

  unrelated to monthly cycles." Instead of sponginess of

  uterine walls, a condition that could be remedied by a simple

  operation, he would note signs of vascular breakdown.
Instead of

  a slightly low hemoglobin, he would indicate that the hemoglobin

  was chronically in the danger zone.

  He went into the library. Her official file was on top of his desk.

  From the drawer he extracted a new folder, put Katie's name on

  it and set down her previous medical history. This was the folder

  he would take to the hospital. He added several paragraphs to the

  file he would put in the wall safe when completed.

  Patient was in minor automobile accident on Monday night,

  February 15. At 2:00 a.m. sedated patient observed the transferal

  of the remains of Vangie Lewis by this physician. Patient still does

  not understand that what she observed was a true event rather than

  a hallucination, but inevitably she will. She cannot be permitted

  to remain as a threat to this physician. On pretense of preparation

  for Saturday surgery, this physician prescribed anticoagulant medication

  to be taken on regular basis until Friday night.

  He laid down his pen. It was easy to imagine how he would

  complete this report.

  Patient entered the hospital at 6:00 p.m. Friday, February 19,

  complaining of dizziness and general weakness. At 9:00 p.m. this

  physician, accompanied by Nurse Renge, found the patient hemorrhaging.

  Blood pressure was falling rapidly. Emergency surgery

  was performed at 9:45 p.m. The patient expired at 10:00 p.m.

  He smiled in anticipation. Every detail was perfectly planned,

  even to assigning Nurse Renge to floor duty Friday night. She was

  young, inexperienced and terrified of him. Putting the file in the

  temporary hiding place in the top desk drawer, he went upstairs to

  bed and slept soundly until six in the morning.

  Three hours later he delivered a healthy baby boy by cesarean

  section to Mrs. Delano Aldrich and accepted as his due the tearful

  gratitude of the patient and her husband.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT EIGHT a.m. Thursday morning the Investigative Squad of the

  Homicide Division of Valley County pulled up to the Lewis home.

  The six-man team was headed by Phil Cunningham and Charley

  Nugent. The detectives in charge of fingerprinting were told to

  concentrate on the master bedroom and bath and the kitchen.

  According to the lab report, Vangie's fingerprints had been

  found on the tumbler that had been lying next to her. She had

  been right-handed. When she poured the cyanide crystals into

  the glass, it would have been natural for her to hold the glass with

  her left hand and pour with her right. Yet only her right prints

  were on the tumbler. This further discredited the suicide theory.

  Every bottle in the medicine chest was opened, sniffed. But the

  bitter-almond scent they were looking for was not to be found.

  The bedroom was carefully vacuumed in the hope of finding

  human hair. As Phil put it: "Any house can have hairs from delivery

  people, neighbors, anybody. We're all shedding hair all the

  time. But most people don't bring even good friends into the bedroom.

  So if you find human hair that doesn't belong to the people

  who sleep in the bedroom, you might have something."

  Close attention was given to the shelves in the garage. The usual

  garden tools, hoses, insecticides and weed killer were there in

  abundance. Phil grunted in annoyance as a prong of a gardening

  fork pulled at his jacket. The prongs had been protruding over

  the edge of the shelf, the handle wedged in by a heavy paint can.

  Bending to free his sleeve, he noticed a sliver of printed cotton

  hooked on the prong.

  That flowered print. He'd seen it recently. It was the dress

  Vangie Lewis was wearing when she died.

  He called the police photographer out to the garage. "Get a

  picture of that," he said, pointing to the tool. When the picture

  was taken, he removed the material and sealed it in an envelope.

  In the house, Charley was going through the desk. When Phil

  came in, Charley said, "We've come up with a big zero. Wait a

  minute. They had an answering service. We'd better check it for

  messages."

  He got the number of the answering service from a file in the

  desk, then dialed and identified himself. "Give me any messages

  left for either Captain or Mrs. Lewis starting with Monday."

  Taking out his pen, he began to write: "Monday, February 15,

  4:00 p.m. Northwest Orient reservations phoned. Mrs. Lewis is

  confirmed on Flight 235 at 4:10 p.m. from La Guardia Airport to

  Minneapolis/St. Paul on Tuesday, February 16."

  Charley asked, "Did Mrs. Lewis receive that message?"

  "Oh, yes," the operator said. "I gave it to her myself at about

  seven thirty Monday evening. She sounded very relieved."

  "All right," Charley said. "What else have you got?"

  "Also on Monday a Miss Edna Burns called at ten p.m. She

  wanted Mrs. Lewis to phone her no matter how late it was. But

  Mrs. Lewis never contacted us again that night."

  There were no further messages on the service, but the operator

  knew a call had come through Tuesday evening and had been

  picked up by Captain Lewis. "I was just starting to answer when

  he came on," she explained. "I got right off."

  Charley thanked the operator, then hung up the receiver and

  looked at Phil. "Let's go. Scott's going to want to hear about this."

  "How do you read it?" Phil asked.

  Charley snorted. "How else can I read it? As of seven thirty

  Monday evening Vangie Lewis was planning to go to Minneapolis.

  A couple of hours later she's dead. As of ten o'clock Monday night,

  Edna Burns had an important message for Vangie. The next night

  Edna's dead, and the last person who saw her alive heard her

  telling Chris Lewis she had information for the police."

  FOR Katie, Wednesday night had seemed endless. She'd gone

  to bed as soon as she returned from Edna's apartment, first taking

  one of the pills Dr. Highley had given her. She'd awakened feeling

  vaguely troubled. Her grandmother's old black hat. Why was she

  thinking about that hat? Of course. Because of that shabby old

  shoe Edna obviously prized. But why just one shoe?

  Grimacing, she got out of bed. The soreness throughout her

  body had intensified during the night. Hoping that a hot bath

  might soak some of the achiness away, she went into the bathroom

  and turned on the taps in the tub. A wave of dizziness made her

  sway, and she grabbed the side of the tub to keep from falling. The

  bathroom mirror revealed the deathly pallor of her skin. It's this

  bleeding, she thought. If I weren't going into the hospital tomorrow

  night, I'd probably end up being carried in.

  The bath did reduce some of the stiffness, and foundation makeup

  minimized the paleness. With her orange juice Katie swallowed

  another of Dr. Highley's pills. Then she grabbed a coat and her

  handbag and went out to the car.

  Charley and Phil were searching the Lewis house this morning.

  Scott was drawing a web around Chris Lewis. If only she could

  find another avenue to explore before Chris was indicted.

  She arrived at the office just befor
e eight and found Maureen

  Crowley already there. "Maureen," Katie said, "I've got a job.

  Could you come in when you have a minute?"

  The girl got up quickly. She had a narrow-waisted, graceful-

  young body. The green sweater she was wearing accentuated the

  vivid green of her eyes. "How about coffee, Katie?"

  "Great. But no ham on rye—at least not yet."

  Maureen looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry I said that yesterday.

  You, of all people, are not in a rut."

  "I'm not sure about that." Katie hung up her coat and settled

  down with her notebook. Maureen brought in the coffee, pulled

  up a chair and waited silently, her steno pad on her lap.

  Katie said slowly, "We're not satisfied that the Vangie Lewis

  death is a suicide. Yesterday I talked with her doctors, Dr. Highley

  and Dr. Fukhito, at Westlake Hospital."

  She heard a sharp intake of breath and looked up quickly. The

  girl's face had gone dead white.

  "Maureen, is anything the matter?"

  "No. No. I'm sorry."

  Unconvinced, Katie looked back at her notes. "As far as we

  know, Dr. Fukhito was the last person to see Vangie Lewis alive.

  I want to find out as much as I can about him. Find out where

  he came from, where he went to school, other hospitals he's been

  connected with, his personal background."