‘Illegal drugs.’
‘No.’ Her voice was firm, her conviction absolute.
‘You sound very certain.’
‘I’m certain because I knew him, and I’m also certain because I’m his commanding officer, and I see his medical record.’
‘Is that something that would normally appear in a medical report?’ Brunetti asked.
She nodded. ‘We can be tested, any of us in the Army, at any time, for drug use. Most of us get a urine test once a year.’
‘Even officers?’
‘Even officers.’
‘Even doctors?’
‘Even doctors.’
‘And you saw the results of his?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was the last one?’
‘I don’t remember. Sometime this summer, I think.’ She shifted some folders from one hand to the other. ‘I don’t know why you’re asking this. Mike never used drugs. Just the opposite. He was dead set against them. We used to argue about it.’
‘How? Why?’
‘I see no problem with them. I’m not interested in them myself, but if people want to use them, then I think they ought to be allowed to.’ When Brunetti said nothing, she continued, ‘Look, I’m supposed to be taking care of little kids, but we’re short-staffed here, so I see a lot of their mothers as well, and a lot of them ask me to renew their prescription for Valium and Librium. If I refuse because I think they’re taking too much of them, they just wait a day or two and go down the hall and have an appointment with a different doctor, and sooner or later, someone’s going to give them what they want. A lot of them would be better off if they could just smoke a joint now and then.’
Brunetti wondered how well these opinions were received by both medical and military authorities, but he thought it best to keep the question to himself. After all, it was not Doctor Peters’ opinion about the use of drugs that he was interested in; it was whether Sergeant Foster had used them or not. And, not at all incidentally, why she had lied about going on a trip with him.
Behind her, the door opened and a stocky middle-aged man in a green uniform came in. He seemed to be surprised to see Brunetti there, but he clearly recognized the doctor.
‘Is the meeting over, Ron?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, paused, looked up at Brunetti and, not sure who he might be, added, ‘m’am.’
Doctor Peters turned to Brunetti. ‘This is First Sergeant Wolf,’ she said. ‘Sergeant, this is Commissario Brunetti, from the Venice police. He’s come out to ask some questions about Mike.’
After the two men had shaken hands and exchanged pleasantries, Doctor Peters said, ‘Perhaps Sergeant Wolf can give you a clearer idea of what Sergeant Foster did, Mr Brunetti. He’s in charge of all of the contacts that the hospital has off-post.’ She turned towards the door. ‘I’ll leave you with him and get back to my patients.’ Brunetti nodded in her direction, but she had turned away from them and left the office quickly.
‘What is it you wanted to know, Commissario?’ Sergeant Wolf asked, then added, less formally, ‘Would you like to come back to my office?’
‘Don’t you work here?’
‘No. I’m part of the administrative staff of the hospital. Our offices are on the other side of the building.’
‘Then who else works here?’ he asked, pointing to the three desks.
‘This desk is Mike’s. Was Mike’s,’ he corrected himself. ‘The other desk is Sergeant Dostie’s, but he’s in Warsaw. They shared the computer.’
How wide this American eagle spread its wings. ‘When will he be back?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Sometime next week, I think,’ Wolf answered.
‘And how long has he been away?’ Brunetti thought this less direct than asking when he had left.
‘Since before this happened,’ Wolf responded, effectively answering Brunetti’s question and eliminating Sergeant Dostie as a suspect.
‘Would you like to come down to my office?’
Brunetti followed him from the room and down the halls of the hospital, trying to remember the way they went. They passed through a set of swinging double doors, down a spotlessly clean corridor, through another set of doors, and then Wolf stopped in front of an open door.
‘Not much, but I call it home,’ he said with surprising warmth. He stepped back to let Brunetti. go into the office first, then came in and pulled the door closed behind them. ‘Don’t want us to be disturbed,’ he said and smiled. He walked behind his desk and sat in an imitation-leather swivel chair. Most of the surface was covered with an enormous desk calendar, and on that rested files, an In- and Out-tray, and a telephone. To the right, in a brass frame, was a photo of an Oriental woman and three young children, apparently the children of this mixed marriage.
‘Your wife?’ Brunetti asked, taking a seat in front of the desk.
‘Yes, beautiful, isn’t she?’
