But there’s another major problem that we can’t yet explain, Philip thought as he took one last look around the parking lot: a motive for this anonymous killer. Why would someone follow Annamarie Scalli to the diner, wait for her to leave, and kill her? Nothing in her personal life—other than her affair with Molly’s husband years ago—would indicate a motive; he’d had her thoroughly checked out. I know that Fran Simmons is pursuing some theory about the hospital that may connect to Annamarie, he thought. I can only hope she comes up with something—soon!
When Philip entered the diner, he was pleased to see that Bobby Burke was at the counter. He was also relieved to see that Gladys Fluegel wasn’t in sight. His detective had warned him that her story about Molly restraining Annamarie from leaving the diner and then rushing out after her had become increasingly more sensational every time she repeated it.
Philip took a seat at the counter. “Hi, Bobby,” he said. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“Boy, you made it quick, Mr. Matthews. I guess Ms. Simmons called you right away.”
“What are you talking about, Bobby?”
“I phoned Ms. Simmons an hour ago and left a message for her.”
“You did? What about?”
“That couple you’ve been looking for, the ones who were here Sunday night? They happened to come in for lunch today. They’re from Norwalk. Turns out they flew up to Canada Monday morning and just got home last night. Can you believe they didn’t even know what had happened? They said they’ll be glad to talk to you. Their names are Hilmer. Arthur and Jane Hilmer.”
Bobby lowered his voice. “Mr. Matthews, just between us, when I told them what Gladys told the cops, they said she was full of baloney. They said they didn’t hear Mrs. Lasch call ‘Annamarie’ twice. According to them, she called her once. And they’re sure she didn’t yell ‘Wait!’ It was Mrs. Hilmer who yelled ‘Waitress,’ trying to get Gladys’s attention.”
Over the years, Philip Matthews knew he had become cynical. People were predictable and never failed to disappoint you. At that moment, however, he felt like a child in Wonderland. “Give me the Hilmers’ number, Bobby,” he said. “This is great!”
Bobby smiled. “There’s more, Mr. Matthews. The Hilmers say that when they came in that night they saw a guy sitting in a medium-sized sedan in the parking lot. They even got a good look at his face, because they caught him with their headlights when they parked. They can describe him. I’m sure that guy never came in here, Mr. Matthews. It was a slow night, and I’d remember.”
Molly has said since the beginning that she saw a medium-sized sedan pulling out of the lot, Philip thought. Maybe this is our break at last.
“The Hilmers said they won’t be home until nine o’clock tonight, Mr. Matthews. They said if anyone wants to see them after that time, though, he should just be at their house. They understand how important this could be to Mrs. Lasch and are anxious to help.”
“I’ll be on their doorstep,” Philip Matthews said. “Oh God, will I be on their doorstep!”
“The Hilmers said they parked right next to a brand-new Mercedes that night. They remembered because it was cold and that was as near to the entrance as you could get. I told them that must have been Mrs. Lasch’s car.”
“Obviously I hired the wrong person to help me with the investigation, Bobby. Where did you learn about all this?” Philip asked.
Bobby smiled benignly. “Mr. Matthews, I’m the son of a public defender, and he’s a good teacher. I plan to be a public defender too.”
“You’ve got a hell of a start,” Philip told him. “Let me have that coffee, Bobby. I need it.”
As he sipped, Philip debated whether to call Molly and tell her immediately about the Hilmers, then decided against it. I’ll wait until I’ve actually seen them myself, he decided. Maybe there’s even more they can tell that will help her. And I’ve got to get a sketch artist up here—tomorrow, if possible—so we can get an idea of the guy they saw in the parking lot. This could be our salvation!
Oh, Molly, Philip thought yearningly as the image of her face, haunted and sad, filled his mind. I’d give my right arm to see you free from this nightmare. And I’d give anything in the world to see you smile.
82
With methodical care, Calvin Whitehall prepared Lou for his assignment in West Redding. He explained that the element of surprise was essential to the plan if it was to work.
“Hopefully, the window from the porch to the laboratory will be open so you can quietly toss in the gasoline-soaked rags; otherwise you will have no choice but to break a pane,” Cal said. “Now I realize that the fuse connected to our little device is short, but it should give you enough time to be down the steps and away from the building before the explosion.”
Lou listened attentively as Cal went on to tell him that Dr. Logue had called, all excited about meeting the press. It was clear he was eager to show Fran Simmons his laboratory, so Lou could count on the two of them being upstairs in the lab when the bomb went off. “It will appear much more likely to be an unfortunate accident if what’s left of them is found in the lab,” Cal said casually, “to say nothing of the fact that if they were downstairs, they might have time to make it out.
“Escape will be impossible from upstairs,” he went on. “The door from the laboratory to the porch has two separate locks, and it’s kept bolted at all times because Dr. Logue is fearful that attempts may be made on his life.”
He’s right to be fearful, Lou thought, but then admitted to himself that, as usual, Cal’s attention to detail was remarkable and no doubt would prove to be a safeguard for him.
“Unless you botch the job completely, Lou—and need I say, don’t!—the fire and subsequent explosion will take care of the dual problems of the doctor and Fran Simmons. The farmhouse is over one hundred years old, and the interior staircase is very narrow and steep. There is no way, assuming the explosion is as great as I anticipate, that either or both of them could get out of the laboratory, run down the hall, and then get down those stairs in time to escape. However, you should be prepared for that eventuality, of course.”
“Be prepared” was Cal’s way of telling him to carry his gun. It had been seven years since he had fired it, but some skills never got rusty. Like riding a bike or swimming, Lou thought—you never forget how to do it. His most recent weapon of choice had been a good, sharp knife.
The farmhouse was in an isolated, wooded area, and although the explosion might be heard, Cal had assured him he would have enough time to be out of the immediate area and back on a main road before the police and fire departments appeared. Lou tried not to show his impatience at all the information Cal was throwing at him. He’d been to the farmhouse often enough to get the lay of the land, and he certainly knew how to take care of himself.
At five o’clock Lou left the apartment. It was unnecessarily early, but here again, Cal believed in being ahead of the game, and anticipating potential delays like traffic tie-ups was important if all was to go according to plan. “You ought to allow yourself more than enough time to park the car out of view of the farmhouse before Fran Simmons arrives,” Cal had cautioned.
As Lou got in the car, Cal came around the side of the garage. “Just want to see you off,” he said with a friendly smile. “Jenna is spending the evening with Molly Lasch. When you get back, come over to the house and have a drink with me.”
And after assignments like this, it’s okay if I call you Cal, Lou thought. Thanks a lot, old buddy. He started the car and headed to the Merritt Parkway north, on the first leg of his important trip to West Redding.
83
It seemed to Fran that Molly’s state had worsened overnight. There were dark crescents under her eyes; her pupils were enormous; her lips and skin, ashen. When she spoke, her voice was low and hesitant. Fran almost had to strain to hear her.
They sat in the study, and several times, Fran noticed Molly looking around the room as if she were surprised at what she
was seeing.
She seems so damn alone, so forlorn, Fran thought; she seems so worried. If only her mother and father had been able to be with her. “Molly, I know it’s none of my business, but I have to ask you,” she said. “Can’t your mother possibly leave your father and get up here? You need her to be with you.”
Molly shook her head, and for an instant the passivity left her voice. “Absolutely not, Fran. Had my father not had a stroke, both of them would have been here; I know that. I’m afraid that the stroke was a lot more serious than they admit. I’ve spoken to him, and he sounds pretty good, but with all the misery I’ve caused them, if something were to happen to him while she was up here, I would go absolutely mad.”
“How much misery will it cause them if they lose you?” Fran asked bluntly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m worried sick about you, and so is Philip, and so, I’m sure, is Jenna. Let’s say it straight—there’s a damn good chance you’ll be taken into custody again on Monday.”
“Ah, we finally say it straight,” Molly said with a sigh. “Thank you, Fran.”
“Hear me out. I believe there’s a very good chance that even if you do have to go back to Niantic, you’ll be out again very soon—and not on parole, but completely exonerated!”
“Once upon a time,” Molly murmured dreamily. “I didn’t know you believed in fairy tales.”
“Stop it!” Fran begged. “Molly, I hate to leave you here like this, but I can’t stay with you right now. I have an appointment that is desperately important to a lot of people, including you especially. Otherwise I wouldn’t leave your side. You know why? It’s because I think you’ve already given up; I think you’ve decided that you’re not even going to appear before that parole board.”
Molly raised her eyebrows quizzically, but did not contradict her.
“Trust me, Molly, please. We’re getting to the truth. I know we are. Believe in me. Believe in Philip. It may not even be important to you, but that guy loves you, and he won’t rest until he proves you’re the real victim in all this.”
“I loved that line in An American Tragedy,” Molly murmured. “I hope I’m remembering it properly: ‘Love me till I die and then forget me.’ ”
Fran got up. “Molly,” she said quietly, “if you really decide to end your life, you’ll find a way to do it whether you’re alone or with ‘the Pope’s standing army,’ as my grandmother used to say.
“I’m going to tell you something: I am angry at my father for committing suicide. No, I’m more than angry—I’m furious. He stole a lot of money, and he would have gone to prison. But he also would have come out of prison, and I would have been there with bells on to greet him.”
Molly sat silently, staring at her hands now.
Impatiently, Fran brushed tears from her eyes. “Worse comes to worst,” she said, “you serve out your term. I don’t think you will, but I’ll concede the point. You still would be young enough when you got out to enjoy—and I mean really enjoy—another forty years or so. You didn’t kill Annamarie Scalli. We all know that, and Philip will blow the case apart. So for God’s sake, girl, pull yourself together. You blue bloods are supposed to be classy. Prove it!”
Molly stood at the window and watched Fran as she drove away. Thanks for the cheery words, but it’s too late, Fran, she thought. There’s nothing left about me that’s classy.
84
The doctor had been anxiously waiting for Fran Simmons to appear for a full half hour before the headlights of her car signaled her arrival. It was virtually on the stroke of seven when she rang his bell, an attention to promptness that he found gratifying. He—a scientist—was punctual himself and expected it in others.
He opened the door, and with a courtly greeting expressed his delight at meeting her. “For nearly twenty years I have been known in this area as a retired ophthalmologist,” he said. “Dr. Adrian Logue. In fact, my real name, and the one which I now happily resume, is Adrian Lowe. As you already know.”
The pictures she had seen of Adrian Lowe in the magazines were almost twenty years old, and they depicted a decidedly more robust man than the one who was standing before her.
He was just under six feet tall, lean, a little stooped. His thinning hair was more white than gray. The expression in his pale blue eyes could only be described as kindly. His overall manner was deferential—even a little shy, as he invited her into the small living room.
Overall, Fran thought, he’s not at all the kind of person I’d expected him to be. But then, what did I expect? she asked herself as she chose a straight-backed chair rather than the rocker he offered. After reading all that stuff he wrote, and knowing what I do about him, I guess I thought he’d look like some kind of zealot, with wild eyes and flailing arms, or like some goose-stepping Nazi doctor.
She had been about to ask him if he would permit her to record him, when he said, “I do hope you brought a recorder with you, Miss Simmons. I do not want to be misquoted.”
“Indeed I did, Doctor.” Fran opened her shoulder bag, slipped out the recorder, and turned it on. Don’t let him guess how much you know already about what he’s been up to, she warned herself. Ask all the important questions. This tape should make valuable evidence later on.
“I will be taking you upstairs to my laboratory directly, and we’ll do most of our talking there. But first let me explain why you are here. No, in point of fact, let me explain why I am here.”
Dr. Lowe rested his head against the back of his chair with a sigh. “Ms. Simmons, you must have heard the old cliché, ‘For every positive there is a negative.’ That premise is especially true in the practice of medicine. Therefore choices—sometimes difficult choices—must be made.”
Fran listened without comment as Adrian Lowe, his voice sometimes soft, sometimes animated, explained his views about the advances in medical care and the need to redefine the concept of “managed care.”
“There should be a cutoff of treatment, but I’m not talking merely about life-support systems,” he began. “Let us say a person has had a third heart attack, or is past seventy and has been on dialysis for five years, or has been granted the enormous financial outlay needed to cover a heart or liver transplant that has failed.
“Isn’t it about time to let that person cash in his or her chips, Miss Simmons? Clearly it’s God’s will, so why should we keep fighting the inevitable? The patient might not agree, of course, and no doubt the family might sue for continuing coverage. Therefore, there should be another authority enabled to hasten this inevitable outcome without discussion with either the family or the patient, and without the incurring of further expense on the hospital’s part. An authority capable of a clinical, objective, scientific decision.”
Fran listened in astonishment at the almost unimaginable philosophy he was articulating. “Do I understand, Dr. Lowe, that you are actually saying that neither the patient nor the family should have anything to say or even know about the decision that is being made to terminate the patient’s life?”
“Exactly.”
“Are you also saying that the handicapped should be unknowing and unwilling guinea pigs for any experiments you and your colleagues might wish to conduct?”
“My dear,” he said condescendingly, “I have a videotape I want you to see. It may help you understand why my research is so important. You may have heard recently of Natasha Colbert, a young lady from a very prominent family.”
My God, he’s going to admit what he did to her, Fran thought.
“Due to a most unfortunate accident, the terminal treatment that was about to be given to a chronically ill elderly woman was administered to Ms. Colbert instead of the routine saline solution that she required.
“This resulted in an irreversible coma, in which state she had existed for over six years. I have been experimenting to find a drug that would reverse that deep coma and last night, for the first time, enjoyed success, if only for a few moments. But that success
is the beginning of something magnificent in science. Allow me to show you the proof.”
Fran watched as Dr. Lowe placed a cassette into the VCR attached to a wide-screen television.
“I never watch television,” he explained, “but for research purposes, I have this unit. I will show you only the final five minutes of the last day of Natasha Colbert’s life. That is all you will need to understand what I have accomplished in the years that I have spent here.”
In disbelief, Fran watched the tape and saw Barbara Colbert murmuring her dying daughter’s name.
She knew her audible gasp when Natasha stirred, opened her eyes, and began to speak delighted Dr. Lowe.
“You see, you see,” he exclaimed.
Shocked, Fran watched as Tasha recognized her mother, then closed her eyes, opened them again, and pleaded with her mother to help her.
She felt tears well in her own eyes at the agonizing sight of Barbara Colbert pleading with her daughter to live. With something approaching hatred, she witnessed Dr. Black denying to Barbara Colbert that Natasha had regained consciousness.
“She could only last a minute. The drug is that powerful,” Dr. Lowe explained as he stopped and rewound the tape. “Someday it will be routine to reverse comas.” He slipped the tape into his pocket. “What are you thinking, my dear?”
“I am thinking, Dr. Lowe, that with your obvious genius, it is incredible that all your efforts are not devoted to the preservation of life and to improving the quality of life, not to the destruction of lives whose quality you deem to be less than acceptable.”
He smiled and stood up. “My dear, the number of thinking people who agree with me are legion. Now let me show you my laboratory.”
Feeling a mixture of horror and growing uneasiness that she was alone with this man, Fran followed Lowe up the narrow staircase. Natasha Colbert, she thought angrily. She was put in that condition by one of his “highly effective drugs.” Also Tim’s grandmother, who had hoped to celebrate her eightieth birthday. And Barbara Colbert, who was too intelligent to be told she was hallucinating by Lowe’s murderous disciple, Peter Black. He may even be talking about Billy Gallo’s mother. How many others? she asked herself.