The Undertaker

“Then it would be tres impossible,” she shook her head. “You see, Doctor Varner is on rounds now. After that, he has appointments and several surgeries that will run well into the evening. That's why the poor man never sees anyone without a referral and an appointment. I'm sure you understand.”

“Ah, certainement! With his schedule, of course I can. But tell me, what is the Doctor working on now?”

“Well, there's the new Herbal and Holistic Medicine Unit,” she ticked them off on her fingers for dramatic effect. “And Weight-loss and Body Recontouring Unit, Substance and Psychic Dependency, Cosmetic Re- engineering, Glandular and Hormonal Re-balance, and of course Dr. Varner's own Personal Preference Surgery.”

“Ah, Personal Preference Surgery. I remember now.”

“You remember? You mean you've been here before?”

“Oh, my, yes, I'm one of the Doctor's former patients.”

“One of Doctor Varner's? Ree-ally?”

I leaned forward and whispered, “That's why I must see him.”

“Personal Preference?” she asked again, still not sure.

“Yes! And very personal, as I'm sure you know.”

“Oh, yes!” Her eyes flashed.

“So,” I gave her a big smile, “if you could be a big dear and give him a message that Peter Talbott has come back to see him, I just know he'll pop right out and see me.”

“Well,” she seemed to glow. “If you'll have a seat for a smidge, I'll let him know you're here. But with his schedule, it may still be quite impossible.”

She picked up the telephone and I stepped to where I had a full view of the double doors that led back to the clinic and waited for the explosion. It didn't take long. Within a minute or two, a fat little man in a white smock with a stethoscope hanging around his neck burst into the waiting room. “What is the meaning of this outrage!” he sputtered. His nervous eyes darted around the small lobby until they settled on me. “Who are you?”

“Me? I'm Peter Talbott.”

“Peter Tal…?” he frowned, almost losing it.

“Yeah, the real one,” I answered, a confident smile forming on my lips. Weak link? One look at Varner and I knew that with a little pressure, he'd crack like a hot chestnut. “And I think we should talk, don't you?”

“Talk? Talk to you?” he scoffed. “Why should I?”

“Because it's me or the State cops and there's nothing your pals Tinkerton or Greene can do to help you then. You're going down.”

The receptionist was in shock as she watched the show unfold. Her eyes moved back and forth between us like a referee at a tennis match. “I'm terribly sorry, Dr. Varner,” she pleaded. “I had no idea.”

“That is all right, Bruce, it isn't your fault.” Varner reached out and patted her hand. “We don't want you to pop any stitches, now do we.” Varner turned and held the door open for me. “All right, come back to my office. If you insist on talking to me, we will talk.”

I glanced over at Bruce as I walked by, but she didn't look very happy about the situation. “A former patient?” She hissed. “I should have known.”

Varner ushered me through the double doors into the clinic and down the corridor to the left. The thin blue carpet of the lobby quickly gave way to gray-flecked linoleum, white semi-gloss enamel, and harsh fluorescent lights. His office was two doors down. I felt supremely confident as I walked in and took a chair across from his desk. It was Varner who was fidgeting nervously as he closed the door behind us. I knew I had him.

“See here. I don't know who you are, young man, but I run a legitimate business here. What right do you have to come here and bother me and my staff like this?”

“You mean Bruce? Oh, he'll get over it. You? I doubt it.”

“I shall have you arrested.”

“Go ahead,” I leaned forward and pushed the desk phone toward him. “Call the cops. If you don't, I will, but it won't be your buddy Virgil Dannmeyer who comes this time. It'll be the State Police and the State Attorney General's Office with search warrants. Neither Tinkerton nor his Washington pals can help you then.”

His face turned red, and he was having trouble pulling off the outraged innocence act.

Behind him, the wall was covered with framed diplomas, medical degrees, and board certifications. “Anias P. Varner, Doctor of Medicine,” I read aloud. “You weren't in the Marine Corps, were you?”

“The Marine Corps?” he sounded flustered. “What are you…?”

“I assume they talked to you — Tinkerton and Greene?”

“Tinkerton and Greene? I have nothing to do with them. If they did something illegal, it is none of my business. None whatsoever.”

I pulled the newspaper clippings from my shirt pocket. “None of your business? Let's see. The Pryors? The Skeppingtons? The Brownsteins? Edward Kasmarek? And now, a couple of bogus Talbotts? Do those names ring a bell?”

His eyes shifted nervously from me to the door.

“None of your business?” I laughed at him. “You signed the death certificates, Doctor. You ID’d them. And you put down the cause of death. No autopsies. No fingerprints. No questions. No nothing. That's a felony. A whole bunch of them.” My eyes bore in. “But was that all you did, Doc? Falsify a few records? Help with the paperwork? Sign a few forms? Or did you help kill them, too?”

“No! No. I swear.” He shook his head violently from side to side denying it, but I could see he was cracking and I'd barely started. “I never touched those people. That was all Tinkerton's work.”

I smiled, my voice turning cruel and sarcastic. “When the real cops get finished with you, Doctor, you'll lose your license and you'll probably end up in the slammer, taking care of other people's “personal preferences” for a long, long time.”

“I only did what Tinkerton told me to do,” he cowered. “Don't you know who he is? Who he is working for?”

“Probably for himself, but you're too dumb to see that.”

“No! No, you have it all wrong.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm sure he'll clear it all up at your trial. A stand-up guy like Ralph Tinkerton? He'll step forward and set everything straight, won't he?”

“You cannot touch him, you fool.”

My eyes narrowed. “Watch me.”

“He is protected, him and the sheriff.”

“Really? He can talk about the White House all he wants, but those are your state licenses hanging on the wall, Doctor, and the Ohio Attorney General isn't going to accept his Washington “Get Out of Jail Free” card. Not this time. Even if they do, it won't help you. You have a half dozen bodies to answer for, Doctor. You're the fall guy. Tinkerton and his friends are going to run away from you as fast as their feet can carry them.”

Varner slumped back in his chair, his eyes glazing over as the slow realization caved-in on him. “I did nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing.”

“Then come downtown with me.”

“What? Downtown?” he mumbled, not understanding.

“Yes, downtown, now, to the State Police Headquarters. If you come clean and tell them everything you know, you might be able to save yourself. If you don't, Tinkerton's going to leave you holding the bag, and you know it.”

Varner blinked. “The State Police? Me?”

“You aren't a stupid man, Doctor. It's all unraveling now — the whole thing. That makes you a liability and makes me your only chance to get out of this thing alive.”

I felt a slight draft on the back of my neck. As I turned my head and looked over my shoulder, the office door had swung open and behind me stood Sheriff Virgil Dannmeyer.

“You aren't going anywhere, Doc,” he snarled as his hand swung down at me. It was holding a black leather sap and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It caught me hard on the back of the head.

The lights went out as I heard him say, “Semper Fi, asshole!”