Black Notice - Cornwell Patricia - Страница 22
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His silence seemed a gloating indictment. He continued his defiant, smug pose, enjoying this immensely. I rested my wrists on the steel table.
"I don't think it's going to be necessary to plead my case to anyone, Chuck," I said. "I think you're the only one on my staff who has a problem with me. Of course, I can understand why you might feel at odds with a woman boss when it appears that all of the power figures in your life have been women."
The gleam in his eyes blinked out at the touch of his switch. Then anger hardened his face. I resumed reflecting back slippery, fragile tissue.
"But I appreciate your expressing your thoughts," I said in a cool, calm way.
"It's not just my thoughts," he replied, rudely. "Fact is, everyone thinks you're on your way out."
"I'm glad you seem to know what everybody thinks," I replied without showing the fury I felt.
"It's not hard. I'm not the only one who's noticed how you don't do things the way you used to. And you know you don't. You've got to admit that."
"Tell me what I should admit."
He seemed to have a list all ready.
"Out-of-character things. Like working yourself into the ground and going to scenes you don't need to, so you're tired all the time and don't notice what's going on in the office. And then upset people call and you don't take time to talk to them like you used to."
"What upset people?" My self-control was about to snap. "I always talk to families, to anyone who asks, as long as the individual has a right to the information."
"Maybe you should check with Dr. Fielding and ask him how many of your calls he's taken, how many families of your cases he's dealt with, how much he's covered up for you. And then your thing on the Internet. That's what's really gone too far. It's sort of the last straw."
I-was baffled.
"What thing on the Internet?" I demanded.
"Your chats or whatever it is you do. To be honest, since I don't have a home computer and don't use AOL or anything, I haven't seen it for myself."
Bizarre, angry thoughts flew through my mind like a thousand starlings and overshadowed every perception I'd ever had about my life. A myriad of ugly, dark thoughts clung to my reason and dug in with their claws.
"I didn't mean to make you feel bad," Chuck said. "And I hope you know I understand how everything could get like this. After what you've been through."
I didn't want to hear another goddamn word about what I'd been through.
"Thank you for your understanding, Chuck," I said, my eyes piercing his until he looked away.
"We've got that case coming in from Powhatбn, and it should have been here by now, if you want me to check on it," he said, anxious to leave the room.
"Do that, and then get this body back in the fridge."
"Sure thing," he said.
The doors shut behind him, returning silence to the room. I reflected back the last of the tissue and placed it on the cutting board as frigid paranoia and self-doubt seeped under the heavy door of my self-confidence. I began anchoring the tissue with hatpins, stretching it and measuring and stretching. I set the corkboard inside the surgical pan and covered it with a green cloth and placed it inside the refrigerator.
I showered and changed in the locker room, and cleared my thoughts of phobias and indignation. I took a long enough break to drink a cup of coffee; it was so old, the bottom of the pot was black. I started a new coffee fund by giving my office administrator twenty dollars.
"Jean, have you been reading these chat sessions that I'm supposedly having on the Internet?" I asked her.
She shook her head but looked uncomfortable. I tried Cleta and Polly next and asked the same question.
Blood rose to Cleta's cheeks, and with eyes cast down she said, "Sometimes."
"Pony?" I asked.
She stopped typing and also blushed.
"Not all the time;" she replied.
I nodded.
"It's not me," I told them. "Someone is impersonating me. I wish I'd known about it before now."
Both of my clerks looked confused. I wasn't sure they believed me.
"I can certainly understand why you didn't want to say anything to me when you became aware of these so-called chat sessions," i went on. "I probably wouldn't have either if the roles were reversed. But I need your help. ь you have any ideas about who might be doing this, will you tell me?"
They looked relieved. `That's awful;' Cleta said with feeling. "Whoever's doing that ought to.go to jail."
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything," Polly contritely added. "I don't have any idea about who would do something like that:"
"I mean it sort of sounds like you when you read it. That's the problem," Cleta added.
"Sort of sounds like me?" I said, frowning.
"You know, it gives advice about accident prevention, security, how to deal with grief and all sorts of medical things."
"You're saying it sounds like a doctor is writing it, or someone trained in health care?" I asked as my incredulity grew.
"Well, whoever it is seems to know what he's talking about," Cleta replied. "But it's more conversational. Not like reading an autopsy report or anything like that."
"I don't think it sounds much like her," Polly said. "Now that I think about it."
I noticed a case file on her desk that was open to color computer-generated autopsy photographs of a man whose shotgun-blasted head looked like a gory eggcup. I recognized him as the murder victim whose wife had been writing me from prison, accusing me of everything from incompetence to racketeering.
"What's this?" I asked her.
"Apparently, the Times-Dispatch and the A.G.'s office have heard from that crazy woman, and Ira Herbert called here a little while ago, asking about it," she told me.
Herbert was the police reporter for the local newspaper. If he was calling, that probably meant I was being sued.
"And then Harriet Cummins called Rose to get a copy of his records," Cleta explained. "It appears his psycho wife's latest story is he put the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger with his toe."
"The poor man was wearing army boots," I replied. "He couldn't possibly have pulled the trigger with his toe, and he was shot at close range in the back of the head."
"I don't know what it is with people anymore," Polly said with a sigh. "All they do is lie and cheat, and if they get locked up, they just sit around and stir up trouble and file lawsuits. It makes me sick."
"Me, too," Cleta agreed.
"Do you know where Dr. Fielding is?" I asked both of them.
"I saw him wandering around a little while ago," Polly said.
I found him in the medical library thumbing through Nutrition in Exercise and Sport. He smiled when he saw me, but looked tired and a little out of sorts.
"Not eating enough carbos," he said, tapping a page with his index finger. "I keep telling myself if I don't get fiftyfive to seventy percent of my diet in carbos, I get glycogen depletion. I haven't had much energy lately…"
"Jack." My tone cut him off. "I need you to be as honest as you've ever been with me."
I shut the library door. I told him what Ruffin had said, and a glint of painful recognition showed in my deputy chief's face. He pulled out a chair and sat down at a table. He closed his book. I sat next to him and we turned our chairs facing each other.
"Something's been going around about Secretary Wagner getting rid of you," he said. "I think it's bullshit and I'm sorry you even heard about it. Chuck's an idiot."
Sinclair Wagner was the Secretary of Health and Human Services, and only he or the governor could appoint or fire the chief medical examiner.
"When did you start hearing these rumors?" I asked.
"Recently. Weeks ago."
"Fired for what reason?" I quizzed him.
"Supposedly, you two aren't getting along."
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