Moriarity seemed to sag for a moment, then just as quickly pulled himself up ramrod straight.
“So, how are you doing on these cases?” he asked.
Patty shook her head.
“We’re working like hell on them, but nothing so far. My bet is it’s either a disillusioned, disgruntled physician or the relative of someone who died because of managed-care negligence. Our hope is that sometime soon the killer will feel the need to get his message across to the public more stridently, and move closer and closer to being out in the open. Then maybe we can get a hook into him.”
“You still upset about Brasco taking your place in charge of this case?”
“Nope. I’m fine, Dad.”
“Good. I’m glad you understand why the change was made. Brasco’s been around a good while. I imagine you’ll learn a lot from him.”
“I’ve learned a lot already.”
“I heard he’s got a cryptographer and a psychologist on the case.”
“That he does.”
Patty narrowly avoided choking on the words. Even before the murder of Marcia Rising, she was concerned that the letters found beside Ben Morales’s body might be the start of something and had both the code-breaker and profiler at work. In one of his first acts after taking over as head of the investigations, Brasco had sent out a memo to all the higher-ups summing up the department’s efforts to date on the two managed-care killings. In it, he unabashedly took full credit for bringing both specialists on board.
If Tommy Moriarity picked up on the venom in his daughter’s voice, he hid it well.
“So,” he said, “you’re still happy you became a cop?”
Tommy’s dream for his daughter centered around at least law school, and at most the Presidency. He didn’t speak to her for two months after learning she had taken the state police exam without consulting him.
“I hear good things about you from Lieutenant Court.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” she said.
Tommy shifted uncomfortably. This wasn’t going to be the moment he suddenly blurted out how proud he was of her and what she had become, or how sorry he was for not insisting she be left in charge of the managed- care murders. If anything, Patty suspected he was embarrassed at how much pressure had been brought to bear on him to not protest her demotion to Brasco’s second fiddle. At some level, she thought, he had to be proud that she had chosen to follow in his footsteps. But then again, maybe not.
“So,” he said, “we’re still on for our dinner a week from Friday?”
Without ever really discussing it, they had gone from eating together twice a week following the death of Ruth Moriarity to every other.
“My place, same time,” Patty said with forced cheer.
“Well. . good luck with this case. Call me if I can be of any help.”
He gave her a wooden hug, turned, and headed off across the lawn, stepping to his left to avoid what looked like a piece of Cyrill Davenport.
CHAPTER 5
The Boston chapter of the Hippocrates Society had been meeting on the third Thursday of each month since its inception fourteen years ago. Initially, the three founders of the chapter met at the home of one or another of them. Soon, driven by a steady increase in membership, they moved to a conference room at Harvard Medical School. Now, for nearly four years, meetings had been held in the amphitheater of the Massachusetts Medical Society-a spectacular modern structure located in a Waltham office park, featuring a massive four-story glass atrium at the main entrance, which opened onto terraced gardens and a bamboo forest.
The avowed goal of the Hippocrates Society was to recapture the practice of medicine from the capricious and viselike grip of the managed-care industry. Begun originally in San Francisco, the Society now had chapters in Chicago, Philadelphia, New York, and Houston, as well as its most rapidly expanding member, Boston. It was named for the fourth-century BC Greek physician, who was now widely recognized as the father of medicine. Hippocrates held the then-heretical belief that illness had a physical and rational explanation and did not represent possession of the body by evil spirits. He also preached the natural healing properties of rest, a good diet, fresh air, and cleanliness, and wrote the Oath of Medical Ethics taken today at most medical-school graduations.
Will arrived at the medical society with fifteen minutes to spare before the seven P.M. start. He had spent the last hour with John Doe, who had, over the past forty-eight hours, made the transition from near-hopeless physical disaster to medical miracle. Following his remarkable surgery there had been a rocky period during which his coma remained dense, his temperature once reached 106 degrees, and his systolic blood pressure persisted below 80 despite the most vigorous treatment.
To make matters worse, the shock and hypothermia had caused his kidneys to shut down, producing no urine output at all. Will brought in specialists from cardiology, neurology, and nephrology-the kidney experts. He and his residents delicately monitored dozens of body chemicals, working under the dangling sword of nonfunctioning kidneys, which meant that toxins couldn’t be cleared from John Doe’s body. In addition, without kidneys, the blood level of administered medications was a challenge to control and could, in fact, have easily become a source of lethal complications.
Hour after hour, the man’s life hung by the thinnest of threads. Suddenly, twenty hours after Will had stepped back from the operating table and stripped off his gloves signaling the end of the surgery, a single magnificent drop of urine appeared in John Doe’s catheter. . then, a minute later, there was another. Kidney function was returning, and from a treatment standpoint, anything was now possible. Will, the nurses, the residents, and the nephrologist toasted the event in the nurses’ lounge with coffee and stale doughnuts.
Just three hours ago, nearly two days after he was left for dead in an alley, the man remarkably and progressively regained consciousness. All at once John Doe had a real name-Jack Langley-and a life. He was a salesman from Des Moines, lowa, and father of three, and had been incapacitated by sudden, severe abdominal pain. He was down on one knee when he was attacked by three men. Fortunately, it appeared that Langley wasn’t conscious for most of the ensuing beating. Now, hardly out of the woods but certainly improving, Langley was filling the nurses in on the details of his life even as they were bringing him up to speed on his close brush with mortality.
Will was pleased to find that most of the medical society amphitheater’s 140 state-of-the-art conference seats were occupied. As he stepped into the hall, he was immediately surrounded by colleagues wanting some sort of update on the latest in the managed-care killings. As head of publicity and public relations for the Boston chapter for the past two years, Will had expected to be contacted by the press if not the police, but so far nothing.
An eager OB named Runyon, clearly more interested in what he had to say than in any grisly headlines, captured the conversation.
“So, get this one, Will. Twenty-three-year-old woman develops severe abdominal cramping. It’s the holiday weekend, so she gets called by the HMO on-call doc, who phones in a scrip for indigestion. The office is closed for the weekend, so no arrangements are made for follow-up. She is worse by morning and calls again and gets another doc who calls in a different prescription, insinuating that last night’s doc doesn’t know what in the hell he’s doing.”
“Tubal pregnancy,” Will said, anxious to speak with Tom Lemm, the Society president.
Runyon looked crestfallen at having the tag line of his tale preempted.
“Exactly,” he said, speaking to those nearby, as Will had headed off. “She bled out on the way to an ER-as in
Will spotted Lemm, a family practitioner in his fifties, on the far side of the hall. By the time he reached the
