of the Valley County prosecutor's office.
SCOTT HELD THE MOCCASIN. RICHARD, Charley and Phil sat around
his desk. "Let's try to put this together," Scott said. "The last
known place Vangie Lewis visited was Dr. Fukhito's office. She
was wearing the moccasins. Somewhere in the hospital she lost one
of them, and Edna Burns found it. Whoever brought her home put
other shoes on her to try to cover up for the missing one. Edna
Burns found the missing shoe. And Edna Burns died.
"Emmet Salem wanted to talk to Richard about Vangie's death.
He fell or was pushed to his death, and the file he was carrying
on Vangie Lewis disappeared."
"And Chris Lewis swears that he saw Edgar Highley in the Essex
House," Richard interjected.
"Which may or may not be true," Scott reminded him.
"But Dr. Salem knew about the scandal in Christ Hospital,"
Richard said. "Highley wouldn't want that to come out."
"That's no motive to kill," Scott said.
"How about Highley trying to get the shoe?" Charley asked.
"We don't know that. The woman from his office claimed he
was opening the drawer. He didn't touch anything." Scott
frowned. "We're dealing with a prominent doctor. We can't go off
half-cocked. The big problem is motive. Highley had no motive to
kill Vangie Lewis."
The intercom buzzed. Scott switched it on. "Mrs. Horan is here
to see Dr. Carroll," Maureen said.
"All right, bring her into my office," Scott directed. "And I want
you to take down her statement."
Richard leaned forward. This was the woman who had filed the
malpractice suit against Edgar Highley.
The door opened and a young Japanese woman preceded
Maureen into the room. Her hair fell loosely on her shoulders. Her
delicate, graceful carriage gave a floating effect even to the inexpensive
pantsuit she was wearing.
Scott stood up. "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Horan?"
She nodded. Clearly nervous, she deliberately folded her hands
in her lap. Maureen sat behind her with her steno pad.
"Mrs. Horan, you were Dr. Highley's patient?" Scott asked.
Richard turned suddenly as he heard Maureen gasp. But the girl
quickly recovered and, bending forward, resumed taking her notes.
Anna Horan's face hardened. "Yes, I was that murderer's
patient."
"That murderer?" Scott said.
Now her words came in a torrent. "I went to him five months ago.
I was pregnant. My husband is a law student. We live on my
salary. I didn't want to, but I decided I had to have an abortion."
Scott sighed. "And now you're blaming Dr. Highley?"
"No. He told me to come back the next day. And I did. He
brought me to an operating room. He left me, and I knew—I
knew—that no matter how we managed, I wanted my baby. Dr.
Highley came back; I was sitting up. I told him I'd changed my
mind. He said, 'Lie down.' He pushed me down on the table."
"Was anyone else in the room? The nurse?"
"No. Just the doctor and me."
"And you allowed him to persuade you?"
"No. No. I don't know what happened. He jabbed me with a
needle while I was trying to get up. When I woke up, I was lying
on a stretcher. The nurse said it was all over."
"You don't remember the procedure?"
"Nothing. The last I remember is trying to get away. Trying to
save my baby. Dr. Highley took my baby from me."
A harsh cry echoed Anna Horan's heartbroken sobs. Maureen's
voice was a wail. "That's, exactly what he did to me."
Richard stared at the weeping women: the Japanese girl; Maureen,
with her red-gold hair and emerald-green eyes. And with absolute
certainty he knew where he had seen those eyes before.
WHEN Edgar Highley reached the second floor of the hospital,
he instantly felt the tension in the air. Frightened-looking nurses
scurried in the hall. A man and woman in evening dress were
standing by the nurses' desk. Quickly he walked over. His voice
was brittle. "Nurse Renge, is there something wrong?"
"Doctor, it's Mrs. DeMaio. She's missing."
The woman in evening clothes must be Katie DeMaio's sister.
What had made her come to the hospital?
"I'm Dr. Highley," he said to her. "What does this mean?"
Molly found it hard to talk. "Katie—" Her voice broke.
Her husband interrupted. "I'm Dr. Kennedy," he said. "My wife
is Mrs. DeMaio's sister. When did you see Mrs. DeMaio, Doctor,
and what was her condition?"
This was not a man to be easily deceived. "I saw Mrs. DeMaio
earlier this evening and her condition was not good. As you probably
know, she's had two units of whole blood this week. The
laboratory is analyzing her blood now. I expect the count to be
low, so I plan to perform surgery tonight. I think Mrs. DeMaio
has been concealing the extent of her hemorrhaging."
"Oh, God, then where is she?" Molly cried.
He looked at her. "Your sister has an almost pathological fear
of hospitals. Is it possible that she would simply leave?"
"It's possible," Bill said slowly.
"Doctor." Nurse Renge spoke up. "That sleeping pill should have
put her to sleep. It was the strongest one I've ever seen."
He glowered at her. "I ordered it because I understood Mrs.
DeMaio's anxiety. You were told to see that she took it."
"I saw her put it in her mouth."
"Did you watch her swallow it?"
"No... not really."
He turned his back on the nurse and spoke to Molly and Bill,
his voice reflective, concerned. "I hardly think Mrs. DeMaio is
wandering around the hospital. Do you agree that she might
simply have walked out among the visitors?"
"Yes. Yes. I do." Molly prayed, Please let it be that way.
"I want to see if her car is in the parking lot," Bill said.
The car. He hadn't thought about her car. If they started looking
for her in the hospital now . . .
Bill frowned. "Oh, hell, she's still got that loan car. Molly, what
make is it? I don't think I've even seen it."
"I .. . I don't know," Molly said.
Edgar Highley sighed. "I suggest that you phone her home. If
she's not there, go and wait for her to come in. She's scarcely been
gone an hour now. When you do find her, please insist she return
to the hospital. Mrs. DeMaio is a very sick girl."
Molly bit her lip. "I see. Thank you, Doctor. Bill, let's just go to
her house. She could he there and not answering the telephone."
They believed him. They would not suggest searching the hos
pital for several hours. And that was all he needed.
He turned to the nurse. "I am sure that we'll be hearing from
Mrs. DeMaio shortly. Call me immediately when you do. I'll be at
my home." He smiled. "I have some records to complete."
"WE MUST seize Dr. Highley's records before he has a chance
to destroy them. Does he keep all his records in his office?"
Jiro Fukhito stared at Richard. He had gone to the prosecutor's
office to make a statement. They had listened to him almost impatiently,
and then Dr. Carroll had outlined his
incredible theory.
Was it possible? Fukhito reviewed the times when suspicions had
formed in his mind. Yes, it was possible.
Records. They had asked him about records. "Highley frequently
takes files to his home," he said.
"Have search warrants sworn out immediately," Scott told
Charley. "I'll take the squad to the house. Richard, you come with
me. Charley, you and Phil take the office. Pick up Highley as a
material witness. If he's not there, we'll nab him as soon as he
gets home."
"What worries me is that he may be experimenting on someone
now," Richard said. He wished Katie were here. She'd be relieved
to know that Chris Lewis had been eliminated as a suspect.
Dr. Fukhito stood up. "Do you need me any longer?"
"Not right now, Doctor," Scott said. "We'll be in touch with you.
If by any chance you happen to hear from Dr. Highley before
we arrest him, please do not discuss this investigation with him."
Dr. Fukhito smiled wearily. "Edgar Highley and I are not
friends. He would have no reason to call me at home. He hired me
because he knew he'd have a hold over me. How right he was."
He left the room. As he walked down the corridor, he saw a
nameplate on a door: Mrs. K. DeMaio. Katie DeMaio. Wasn't
she supposed to have gone into the hospital tonight? But, of
course, she never would go through with her operation while
Edgar Highley was under investigation.
Jiro Fukhito went home.
SHE WAS DRIFTING DOWN A DARK CORRIDOR. At the very end there
was a light. It would be warm when she got there. Warm and safe.
But something was holding her back. Before she died, she had to
make them know what Dr. Highley was. Her finger was dripping
blood; she could feel it. She'd smear Highley's name on the floor.
He was insane. He had to be stopped. Slowly, painfully, Katie
moved her finger. Down, across, down again. H . . .
HE GOT home at quarter past nine. Having at last eliminated the
final threat, he was feeling buoyant. He had finished eating less
than an hour ago, but somehow could not even remember the
meal. Perhaps Hilda had left something for a snack.
It was better than he had hoped. Fondue. Hilda made remarkably
good fondue. He lit the Stemo can under the pot, adjusted it
to a low flame. A crisp loaf of French bread was in a basket, covered
by a damask napkin. He'd make a salad.
While the fondue heated, he would complete Katie DeMaio's
file. He was anxious to be finished with it. He wanted to think
about tomorrow's two patients: the donor and the recipient. He
was confident that he could duplicate his success.
He went into the library, opened the desk drawer and withdrew
Katie DeMaio's file from its compartment. He made a final entry:
Patient entered hospital at 6:00 p.m. with blood pressure
100/60, hemoglobin no more than 10 grams. This physician administered
the final two Coumadin pills at 7:00 p.m. At 8:30 this
physician returned to Mrs. DeMaio's room and administered 5-ml
heparin injection. Mrs. DeMaio awakened briefly. In a near
comatose state she asked, "Why did you kill Vangie Lewis?"
This physician left to obtain more heparin. When this physician
returned, patient had left room in attempt to escape. Patient was
apprehended and another 5 ml of heparin was administered. Patient
will hemorrhage to death tonight in Westlake Hospital. This
file is now closed.
He put down his pen, stretched, walked over to the wall safe
and opened it. Bathed in light from the crystal sconces, the buff-
colored files inside took on an almost golden sheen.
They were golden: the records of his genius. Expansively he
lifted them all out and laid them on his desk, savoring his great successes:
Berkeley and Lewis. Then his face darkened at the sight
of the failures: Appleton, Carey, Drake, Elliot . . . Over eighty
of them. But not really failures. He had learned so much, and they
had all contributed. Those who had died, those who had aborted.
From somewhere in the distance a sound was beginning to
penetrate the library: the wail of a siren. He hurried to the window,
snatched back the drapery and glanced out. A police car had
pulled into the driveway.
Had Katie been found? Had she been able to talk? Running to
the desk, he stacked the files, replaced them in the safe, closed it
and pushed back the panel. Calm. He must be calm.
If Katie had talked, it was all over.
All the possibilities and consequences were exploding in his
mind. And then it came. The icy calm, the sense of power, the
godlike omniscience that never failed him during difficult surgery.
There was a sharp rap at the door. Slowly, deliberately he
smoothed his hair, then tightened the knot in his tie. He walked to
the front door and opened it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IN HIGHLEY'S driveway, the two detectives who were in the front
seat of the squad car jumped out. As he and Scott followed, Richard
noticed the movement of a drapery in a window at the far
right of the house.
They had parked behind a black car with MD plates. Scott
touched the hood. "It's still warm. He hasn't been here long."
The younger detective rapped sharply on the front door. They
waited. The door opened. Edgar Highley was standing in the
foyer. Scott spoke first. "Dr. Highley?"
"Yes?" The tone was cold and questioning.
"Dr. Highley, I'm Scott Myerson, the Valley County prosecutor.
We have a search Warrant for these premises, and it is my duty to
inform you that you have become a suspect in the deaths of Vangie
Lewis, Edna Burns and Dr. Emmet Salem. You have the right to
consult a lawyer. You can refuse to answer questions. Anything
you say may be used against you."
Suspect. They weren't sure. They hadn't found Katie. With controlled
fury he said, "Come in, gentlemen. I will answer any
questions you have, and you are welcome to search my home.
However, when I consult a lawyer, it will be to bring suit against
Valley County and against each one of you personally."
He led them into the library. He knew he looked imposing
sitting behind the massive Jacobean desk. It was vital that he
unnerve them, make them afraid to question too closely. With a
gesture of contempt, he waved them to the leather couch and
chairs. Scott Myerson handed him the printed Miranda warning.
Scornfully he signed it Myerson and Dr. Carroll sat down; the
other two did not.
"We'll proceed with the search," the older detective said politely.
"Where do you keep your medical records, Dr. Highley?"
"At my office, of course," he snapped. "However, please satisfy
yourselves." He stood up, walked to the bar and poured Scotch
and water into a crystal tumbler. Then he sat down in the high-
backed striped velvet chair near the fireplace, sipped the Scotch
and eyed them coldly.
The questions began. "Did Mrs. Lewis enter your office after
leaving Dr. Fukhito last Monday night?"
"As I told Mrs. DeMaio . . ." They had absolutely no proof.
"Where were you that night, Doctor?"
"Home. I came home directly after my office hours."
"Were you in Edna Burns's apartment on Tuesday night?"
His smile, contemptuous. "Hardly."
"We'll want some hair samples from you."
Hair samples. Had some been found in Edna's apartment? But
he'd been there with the police on Wednesday night. And Vangie
always wore that black coat to the office. If strands of his hair
had been found near the dead women, they could be explained.
"Were you in the Essex House last night after five o'clock?"
"Absolutely not."
"We have a witness who is prepared to swear that he saw you
get off the elevator there at approximately five thirty."
Who had seen him? He had glanced around the lobby as he got
off the elevator. He was certain that no one he knew was there.
Maybe they were bluffing.
"I was not in the Essex House last night. I was at the Carlyle! I
dine there frequently; in fact, my medical bag was stolen while I