had hot-shot lawyers twist her words until only careful documentation had saved her from total disaster.
She created four piles: “toss”, “file”, “consider later” and “deal with immediately”. After she swept the “toss” stuff in the wastebasket, she plugged in her kettle and brewed a pot of Earl Gray tea. Oversize mug in hand, she phoned the hospital switchboard and was patched through to the path lab.
“Dr. Axeworthy, I have a couple of questions about a colleague of yours.”
“My responsibilities do not involve discussing my colleagues with the police. You have heard of confidentiality?”
“It isn’t a question of confidentiality. Dr. Uiska told me she’d had a number of unexpected deaths in the last few weeks. She claimed these patients should have recovered from surgery and didn’t, and their deaths were classified as negative autopsies. Would you check the records and tell me how many of Uiska’s patients died in the last six weeks compared to the same period last year? I’m particularly interested in the number of deaths you classified as negative autopsies.”
“You’d think we had nothing to do but fill out papers. Our patients may be dead but, like everyone else, we operate under money and time constraints.”
“I’m sure you do. With cutbacks, we’re all understaffed, but I do require the figures very soon. I appreciate it. I’m aware of how busy you are.”
Her second call went to Dr. Uiska’s secretary, who connected her to the doctor. “Dr. Uiska, Rhona Simpson here. I’d like you to come in today. It’s important.”
“Good morning, Detective,” Uiska said, underlining both the abruptness of Rhona’s address and Uiska’s inability or unwillingness to use her name. “I can’t imagine what information you want that I can’t tell you on the phone.”
Rhona’s hand tightened on the receiver. “As I said yesterday, this is a murder investigation. I determine who I interview and when. I must meet you today. You surely don’t, or perhaps you do, want me to employ the heavy guns and insist you postpone whatever you’re doing this morning and see me immediately?”
“My dear woman, it’s not necessary to get upset. If you think this is important, well, of course, being a good and concerned citizen, I am at your command. I can be there by six. It’s not something I like to do, but one of my residents can cover my afternoon rounds.” Uiska implied that for some patients, her absence would mean the difference between life and death and maybe it would. Rhona hoped not.
“I’ll expect you.” Rhona said and stuck her tongue out at the phone before she hung up.
Next she called Tessa Uiska’s husband. “Dr. Yantha, I plan to drop by your office after lunch. I remember you said you left a slot open for emergencies, and I want your professional opinion on something.”
“Two would be best. My two o’clock cancelled.”
With her doctors’ appointments set, she removed the tea bags, added hot water to the teapot and poured herself another cup.
Time to skim through When Push Comes to Shove. She picked up the bulky manuscript in its red folder, rested her feet on the open bottom drawer and opened the book. Years earlier, she’d taken a speed-reading course and had never been sorry. Zipping through the pages, she stopped occasionally to write questions and comments on a yellow legal pad. Two themes emerged: the long-term effects of traumatic childhood sexual molestation; and the lengths to which vulnerable individuals would go to hide stories of molestation, or of secret sexual preferences and practices they considered damaging to their mainstream lives.
A third of the way through the book, she laid the manuscript on her desk. Something was missing. She flipped her pen, a four-colour wonder, up in the air to see if she could catch it before it landed, discovered she couldn’t, and bumped her head when she retrieved it. Somehow the pencil, the flip or the bump reminded her of Tom Masterman, long time crime reporter for the Toronto Star and author of three books on true crime. Once or twice in the past she’d supplied Masterman with information and they’d established a friendly rapport.
Rhona phoned the Star only to be told Masterman had taken early retirement. She flipped through her Rolodex, located the card she wanted and phoned Masterman’s home.
“It’s Rhona Simpson from Ottawa. I’m not sure if you’re doing any consulting, but we have a murder here that may be connected to crimes with which you’re familiar.”
“Good thing you rang today. I’m off on a trip to New Brunswick next week. What exactly do you think I can do?”
“Paul Robertson, the minister murdered on Sunday, has written a book using pseudonyms for real people involved in camouflaged crimes. Could I courier a copy of the manuscript to you and ask you to match the pseudonyms with actual names and crimes? If you can, I’d like you to share any details the press didn’t report, especially if they might have motivated a person to murder to keep information quiet.”
“Shouldn’t be hard. My files are in my computer. Tomorrow’s a good day—the wife’s out at her ‘slim and trim’, then she’s off to buy the grandkids lunch and take them to the zoo. Soon as it arrives, I’ll skim it and see if I can identify the crimes and bring up the information.”
Masterman sounded delighted to have a project. Retirement must be hard for a guy who’d enjoyed his work. She poured herself a final cup of lukewarm tea and fumbled in her top drawer for the box of Smarties she reserved for sugar binges. The hard-coated chocolate-centred candies simultaneously comforted her and gave her the guilts. Sometimes she ate them one by one, telling herself each would be the last, but knowing full well she’d continue to enjoy the melting of the brightly coloured covering and savour the chocolate centres until the bag was empty. This time she bypassed the game and stuffed a handful in her mouth before she reached for the manuscript.
Rhona’s chief, the immaculately dressed Inspector Charlie O’Connor, stuck his head in the room. As usual, his clothing dazzled. He favoured blindingly white Egyptian cotton shirts with French cuffs and distinctive cuff links, well-tailored English wool suits and highly polished brogues. Sadly, even the best of English tailoring failed to hide his bulky Irish body or add grace to his face, which was sinking into the jowly folds of an aging Boxer dog.
“How are you doing? Need more staff? I can free another constable if necessary. I want you at the press conference at noon.”
Hastily swallowing the candy, Rhona choked, grabbed for the tea and tipped the large mug. Mesmerized, her eyes followed the liquid as it flowed around the manuscript, isolating it like an island in a tea dark sea.
The manuscript wasn’t hers.
She reached for the book as O’Connor bent to do the same thing. The red dye in the manuscript cover, freed by the tea, spattered O’Connor’s white cuffs. The tea soaked into Rhona’s neat piles of paper before it dripped on the floor. Red dye coloured her hands and splashed on her brown suit. In one motion, Rhona parked the dripping manuscript in her metal wastebasket, pulled the last three tissues from the box and dropped them in the brown swill.
Three weren’t going to do the job. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’ll get paper towels.” She bolted from the room leaving the chief examining his red-spotted cuffs. Rhona had a horrible feeling those red splotches would forever mark her career.
After the fiasco with Chief O’Connor, Rhona cleaned up the mess, couriered a copy of the manuscript to Masterman and went down to the canteen for a newspaper. Turning to the employment opportunities, she ran through the possibilities, but no one was advertising for a more than slightly spastic cop with confirmed suicidal tendencies. She deposited the newspaper in the red streaked wastebasket. Nothing she could do about the red stains on her clothes. The press interview was in half and hour. She hoped the press officer didn’t direct any questions to her.
She had time to phone Ms Grant. After she identified herself she said, “I’ve been reading the manuscript. When did your husband do his research?