Yes. Why?
And she's very attractive?
A knockout.
I've met her.
Chapter 16
Every weekday morning Carleton Swindell rowed the Willamette, then showered at his athletic club. His hair was still a tad damp when he entered the anteroom of his office at seven-thirty sharp a few days after Vincent Cardoni's bail hearing. As soon as the hospital administrator walked in the door, Sean McCarthy stood up and displayed his badge.
I hope you don't mind my waiting in here, Dr. Swindell, McCarthy said while Swindell inspected his identification. There wasn't anyone around.
No problem, Detective. My secretary doesn't get in until eight.
McCarthy followed Swindell into the administrator's office. Diplomas from several prestigious universities, including a medical degree and a master's in public health from Emory University, were prominently displayed next to photographs of Swindell posing with President Clinton, Oregon's two senators and several other dignitaries. A tennis trophy and two plaques for rowing victories graced a credenza under a large picture window with a view of downtown Portland, the Willamette River and three snow-capped mountains. McCarthy did not see any family photographs.
I don't have any overdue parking tickets, do I?
I wish it were that simple. I assume you know that one of the doctors at your hospital has been charged with murder.
Swindell's smile disappeared. Vincent Cardoni. He shook his head. It's unbelievable. The whole hospital's been talking about nothing else.
So you were surprised by the arrest.
Swindell looked thoughtful. Why don't you sit down? he said as he walked around his desk. When he was seated, Swindell swiveled toward his view, leaned back and steepled his fingers.
You asked if I' m surprised. The type of crime a mass serial killing of course that shocks me. How could it not? But Dr. Cardoni has been a problem for this hospital since we hired him.
Oh?
Swindell looked pensive.
Your visit presents me with a problem. I' m not certain I can discuss Dr. Cardoni with you. Confidentiality and all that.
McCarthy took a document out of his inside jacket pocket and held it out across the desk.
I had a judge issue a subpoena before I came. It's for Dr. Cardoni's records.
Yes, well, I' m sure it's in order. I'll have to have our attorneys review it. I'll expedite the matter, of course.
Thank you.
Shocking. The whole business. Swindell hesitated. May I speak off the record?
Of course.
Now, I don't have proof of anything I' m going to tell you. It's what I believe you call deep background.
McCarthy nodded, amused by the TV cop lingo.
A week or so ago, Dr. Cardoni attacked Mary Sandowski, one of our nurses. Swindell shook his head. I read that she was one of the poor souls you found in that mountain graveyard.
McCarthy nodded again.
He's a violent man, Detective. Last year he was arrested for assault, and I've had complaints of abusive behavior from our staff. And there are rumors of drug use. Swindell looked grim. We've never substantiated the rumors, but I've got a gut feeling that there is something to them.
Another doctor who worked here was found in the graveyard.
Ah, Clifford. Swindell sighed. You know, of course, that he was in danger of losing his privileges here?
No, I didn' t.
Drinking, Swindell confided. The man was a hopeless alcoholic.
Did Cardoni know Clifford Grant?
I assume so. Dr. Grant was supervising Justine Castle's residency until we convinced him to take a leave of absence. Dr. Castle is married to Vincent.
Interesting. Is there anything else that would tie Grant to Cardoni?
Not that I can think of right now.
McCarthy stood. Thank you, Dr. Swindell. Your information has been very helpful. And thank you for expediting the subpoenas.
Swindell smiled at the detective and said, My pleasure.
As soon as McCarthy was out of the office, Swindell phoned Records. He wanted to make sure that the police received anything on Cardoni as soon as possible. It was the least he could do to thank them for taking care of a very annoying problem.
Walter Stoops made a living scrambling after personal injury clients and pleading out drunk drivers. Three years earlier Stoops had been suspended from the practice of law for six months for misusing client funds. Late last year the thinnest of technicalities had enabled him to avoid a count of money laundering when a Mexican drug ring was busted.
Stoops practiced out of an office on the top floor of a run-down, three-story building near the freeway. The cramped reception area was barely big enough to accommodate the desk of the secretary/receptionist, a young woman with stringy brown hair and too much makeup. She looked up uncertainly when Bobby Vasquez stepped through the door. He guessed that Stoops did not have many clients.
Could you please tell Mr. Stoops that Detective Robert Vasquez would like to talk to him?
He flashed his badge and dropped into a chair beside a small table covered with year-old issues of People and Sports Illustrated. The young woman hurried through a door to her left, returned a moment later and showed Vasquez into an office not much larger than the reception room. Seated behind a scarred wooden desk was a fat man in a threadbare brown suit wearing tortoiseshell glasses with thick lenses. His sparse hair was combed sideways across the top of his head, and the collar of his white shirt was frayed.
Stoops flashed Vasquez a nervous smile. Maggie says you're with the police.
Yes, I am, Mr. Stoops. I' d like to ask you a few questions in connection with an investigation that I' m conducting. Mind if I sit?
No, please, Stoops said, pointing to an empty chair. But if this is about one of my clients, I may not be able to help you, you understand, he said, trying hard to sound nonchalant.
Sure. Just stop me if there's a problem, Vasquez answered with a smile as he pulled a stack of papers out of a briefcase he was carrying. Are you familiar with Northwest Realty, an Oregon corporation?
Stoops's brow furrowed for a moment. Then a light went on.
Northwest Realty. Sure. What about it?
You're listed as the corporate agent. Would you mind telling me a little about the company?
Stoops suddenly looked concerned. I' m not certain I can do that. Attorney-client confidence, you know.
I don't see the problem, Mr. Stoops. Vasquez thumbed through the printouts. For instance, it's public record that you purchased a three-acre lot in Milton County in 1990 for the company. Your name is on the deed.
Well, yeah.
Have you purchased any other property for the corporation?
Uh, no, just that one. Can you tell me what this is about?
What other things have you done for Northwest Realty besides buying the land in Milton County?
Stoops twisted nervously in his chair. I' m very uncomfortable discussing a client's business. I don't think I can continue unless you explain why you're asking these questions.
That's fair, Vasquez answered cordially. He pulled two photographs out of his briefcase and tossed them on the blotter. The photos were upside-down for Stoops. He leaned forward, not yet processing what he was seeing. He reached out gingerly and rotated the snapshots. Then his face lost all color. Vasquez pointed to the photograph on the right.
