That opened his eyes. 'Did you notice anything unusual at that time-anyone loitering or acting in a suspicious manner?'
Remembering the feeling of being watched as I left my car, I said, 'No, but the lighting was uneven.'
'What do you mean by uneven, sir?'
'Irregular. Half the spaces were lit; the others were dark. It would have been easy for someone to hide.'
He looked at me. Clicked his teeth. Took another glance at my badge and said, 'You can move on now, sir.'
I walked down the pathway. As I passed the huddle I recognized one of the men. Presley Huenengarth. The head of hospital Security was smoking a cigarette and stargazing, though the sky was starless.
One of the other suits wore a gold shield on his lapel and was talking.
Huenengarth didn't seem to be paying attention.
Our eyes met but his gaze didn't linger. He blew smoke through his
nostrils and looked around. For a man whose system had just failed miserably, he looked remarkably calm.
Wednesday's paper turned the assault into a homicide.
The victim, robbed and beaten to death, had indeed been a doctor. A name I didn't recognize: laurence Ashmore. Forty-five years old, on the staff at Western Peds for just a year. He'd been struck from behind by the assailant and robbed of his wallet, keys, and the magnetized card key that admitted his car to the doctors' lot. An unnamed hospital spokesperson emphasized that all parking-gate entry codes had been changed but admitted that entry on foot would continue to be as easy as climbing a flight of stairs.
Assailant unknown, no leads.
I put the paper down and looked through my desk drawers until I found a hospital faculty photo roster. But it was five years old, predating Ashmore's arrival.
Shortly after eight I was back at the hospital, finding the doctors' lot sealed with a metal accordion gate and cars stack-parked in the circular drive fronting the main entrance. An ALL FULL sign was posted at the mouth of the driveway, and a security guard handed me a mimeographed sheet outlining the procedure for obtaining a new card key.
'Where do I park in the meantime?'
He pointed across the street, to the rutted outdoor lots used by nurses and orderlies. I backed up, circled the block, and ended up queuing for a quarter hour. It took another ten minutes to find a space.
Jaywalking across the boulevard, I sprinted to the front door.
Two guards instead of one in the lobby, but there was no other hint that a life had been snuffed out a couple of hundred feet away. I knew death was no stranger to this place but I'd have thought murder rated a stronger reaction. Then I looked at the faces of the people coming and going and waiting. Nothing like worry and grief to narrow ones perspective.
I headed for the rear stairway and noticed an unto-date roster just past the Information desk. laurence Ashmore's picture was on the top left. Specialty in Toxicology.
If the portrait was recent, he'd been a young-looking forty-five.
Thin, serious face. Dark, unruly hair, hyphen mouth, horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Woody Allen with dyspepsia. Not the type to pose much of a challenge for a mugger. I wondered why it had been necessary to kill him for his wallet, then realized what an idiotic question that was.
As I prepared to ride up to Five, sounds from the far end of the hospital caught my attention. Lots of white coats. A squadron of people moving across my line of sight, rushing toward the patienttransport elevator.
Wheeling a child on a gurney, one orderly pushing, another holding an I.V bottle and keeping pace.
A woman I recognized as Stephanie. Then two people in civvies.
Chip and Cindy.
