In Katzka's experience, the average person — provided he or she was not a suspect — enjoyed talking to homicide cops. People were curious about murder, about police work. He'd been astonished by the questions they asked him, even the sweetest-faced old ladies, everyone longing to hear the details, the bloodier the better. Dr. DiMatteo, however, had sounded genuinely unwilling to speak to him. He wondered why.
He found the hospital library tucked between data processing and the financial office. Inside were a few aisles of bookshelves, a librarian's desk, and a half-dozen study carrels along one wall. Dr. DiMatteo was standing beside the photocopier, positioning a surgical journal on the plate. She'd already collated a number of papers into piles, and had stacked them on a nearby desk. It surprised him to see her performing such a clerical task. He was also surprised to see her dressed in a skirt and blouse rather than the scrub clothes he'd assumed was the uniform of all surgical residents. From the first day he'd met Abby DiMatteo, he'd thought her an attractive woman. Now, seeing her in a flattering skirt, with all that black hair hanging loose about her shoulders, he decided she was really quite stunning.
Shelooked up and gave a nod. That's when he noticed something else different about her today. She seemed nervous, even a little wary.
'I'm almost finished,' she said. 'I have one more article to copy.' 'Not on duty today?'
'Excuse me?'
'I thought surgeons lived in scrubsuits.'
She placed another page on the Xerox machine and hit the Copy button. 'I'm not scheduled for the OR today. So I'm doing a literature search. Dr. Wettig needs these for a conference.' She stared down at the copier, as though the flashing light, the machine's whiff, required all her concentration. When the last pages rolled out, she took them to the table, where the other stacks lay waiting, and sat down. He pulled out the chair across from her. She picked up a stapler, then set it back down again.
Still not looking at him, she asked: 'Have there been new developments?'
'In regards to Dr. Levi, no.'
'I wish I could think of something new to tell you. But I can't.' She gathered up a few pages and stapled them together with a sharp snap of the wrist.
'I'm not here about Dr. Levi,' he said. 'This is about a different matter. A patient of yours.'
'Oh?' She picked up another stack of papers and slid it between the stapler teeth. 'Which patient are we talking about?'
'A Mrs Mary Allen.'
Her hand paused for a second in midair. Then it came down, hard, on the stapler.
'Do you remember her?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'I understand she died last week. Here, at Bayside.'
'That's right.'
'Can you confirm that her diagnosis was metastatic undifferentiated carcinoma?'
'Yes.'
'And was she in the terminal stages?'
'Yes.'
'Then her death was expected?'
There was a hesitation. It was just long enough to notch up his alertness.
She said, slowly, 'I would say it was expected.'
He was watching her more closely, and she seemed to know it. He didn't say anything for a moment. Silence, in his experience, was far more unnerving. Quietly he asked: 'Was her death in any way unusual?'
At last she looked up at him. He realized she was sitting absolutely still. Almost rigid.
'In what way unusual?' she asked.
HARVEST
'The circumstances. The manner in which she expired.'
'Can I ask why you're pursuing this?'
'A relative of Mrs Allen's came to us with some concerns.'
'Are we talking about Brenda Halhey? The niece?'
'Yes. She thinks her aunt died of causes unrelated to her disease.' 'And you're trying to turn this into a homicide?'
'I'm trying to determine if there's anything worth investigating. Is there?'
She didn't answer.
'Brenda Hainey received an anonymous note. It claimed that Mary Allen didn't die of natural causes. Do you have any reason, any reason at all, to think there might be substance to that?'
He could have predicted several likely responses. She might have laughed and said this was all ridiculous. She might have told him that Brenda Hainey was crazy. Or she might show puzzlement, even a flash of anger, that she was being subjected to these questions. Any one of those reactions would have been appropriate. What he did not expect was her actual response.
She stared at him with a face suddenly drained white. And she said softly: 'I refuse to answer any more questions, Detective Katzka.'
Seconds after the policeman left the library, Abby reached in panic for the nearest telephone and paged Mark. To her relief, he immediately answered her call.
'That detective was here again,' she whispered. 'Mark, they know about Mary Allen. Brenda's been talking to them. And this cop's asking questions about how she died.'
'You didn't tell him anything, did you?'
'No, I-' She took a deep breath. The sigh that followed was close to a sob. 'I didn't know what to say. Mark, I think I gave it away. I'm scared and I think he knows it.'
'Abby, listen. This is important. You didn't tell him about the morphine in your locker, did you?'
'I wanted to. Jesus, Mark, I was ready to spill my guts. Maybe I should. If I just came out and told him everything-'
'Don't.'
'Isn't it better to just tell him? He'll find out anyway. Sooner or later, he'll dig it all up. I'm sure he will.' She let out another breath, and felt the first flash of tears sting her eyes. She was going to be sobbing in a minute, right here in the library, where anyone could see her. 'I don't see any way around it. I have to go to the police.'
'What if they don't believe you? They take one look at the circumstantial evidence, that morphine in your locker, and they'll jump to the obvious conclusion.'
'So what am I supposed to do? Wait for them to arrest me? I can't stand this. I can't.' Her voice faltered. In a whisper she repeated, '! can't.'
'So far the police have nothing. I won't tell them a thing. Neither will Wettig or Parr, I'm sure of it. They don't want this out in the open any more than you do. Just hold on, Abby. Wettig's doing everything he can to get you reinstated.'
It took her a moment to regain her composure. When at last she spoke again, her voice was quiet but steady. 'Mark, what if Mary Allen was murdered? Then there should be an investigation. We should bring this to the police ourselves.'
'Is that what you really want to do?'
'I don't know. I keep thinking it's what we ought to do. That we're obligated. Morally and ethically.'
'It's your decision. But I want you to think long and hard about the consequences.'
She already had. She'd thought about the publicity. The possibility of arrest. She'd gone back and forth on this, knowing what she should do, yet afraid to take action. I'm a coward. My patient's dead, maybe murdered, and all I can worry about is saving my own goddamn skin.
The hospital librarian walked into the room, wheeling a squeaky cart of books. She sat down at her desk and began stamping the inside covers. Whap. Whap.
'Abby,' said Mark. 'Before you do anything, think.'
'I'll talk to you later. I've got to go now.' She hung up, and went back to the table, where she sat down and stared at the stack of photocopied journal articles. This was the extent of her work today. This was what she'd
