I thought about the way the death plan might’ve gone down. Weeks, maybe months, of planning between Eric and Joanne. Easy collusion, or had Eric tried to talk his mother out of it? Finally given up and settled for immortalizing her with Polaroids?
How had she convinced him? Telling him it was noble?
Or had he needed little convincing—enraged at her, too. One of those terrifying kids who are missing that little, secret shred of brain tissue that inhibits evil? The scheme, then the night of judgment. . . surreptitious mother-son outing on one of the many nights when Richard was out of town. Eric driving, Joanne riding along. The long, dark trip to the edge of the desert. Lancaster, because Mom was adamant about that. Obscene. How could a mother do that to a son? What transgression had she committed that could’ve been worse than that?
I was unlikely to find the answer in her hospital chart. But one did what one could. One did what was right. And hoped for some final day of judgment.
Transcendence.
Absolution.
The limestone and mirrored mass of St. Michael’s filled several square blocks on Wilshire, in Santa Monica, half a mile east of the beach. I’d lectured there a few years earlier, teaching family-practice residents about divorce and child abuse and bed-wetting, but I had no idea how to find Medical Records and the personnel office. I got directions from a kid with a skimpy blond beard and a badge alleging he was an MD. North side of the complex, adjoining buildings. I hit personnel first—Human Resources. Most companies call it that now—warm fuzzy twist on the lexicon. Does it ease the pain when they fire you?
The office was small, stark, sterile, occupied by an imperious-looking black woman in an orange suit who sat entering columns of data into a PC. I was wearing my Western Pediatrics badge, had my I.D. card from the med school crosstown ready as backup. But she smiled when I told her I was in charge of arranging a faculty party and needed some office addresses, and handed over a phone-book-size volume marked Staff Roster. Her openness felt fresh and clean and odd. I’d been hanging around too long with cops, lawyers, psychopaths, other evasive creatures.
She returned to her desk and I thumbed through the book. The professional staff was listed at the front. Pages of doctors. Names, office addresses, photos. No personal data. No one who resembled the various faces of the man Leimert Fusco claimed was the real Dr. Death. The same went for the rear sections listing social workers, physical therapists, occupational therapists, respiratory therapists.
When I brought the book back, the woman in orange said, “Hope it’s a good party.”
Medical Records was a bit more complicated. The receptionist was one of those pucker-mouthed types weaned on skepticism, and she hadn’t seen Joe Safer’s faxed authorization. Finally the paperwork materialized and she produced Joanne Doss’s inch-thick chart.
“You need to read it here. That fax doesn’t authorize photocopying.”
“No problem.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Who?”
“Doctors who work for lawyers.”
I took the file across the room. Multicolored pages of lab reports. Numbers in boxes. Motley samples of physician scrawl. Bob Manitow’s name appeared only on the referral form. Fifteen other doctors had attempted to discern the cause of Joanne’s misery. Blood work, urinalysis, X rays, CAT scans, PET scans, MRIs, the lumbar punctures Richard had told me about because nothing else had turned up.
The operative word: “negative.”
Clear spinal fluid. Normal BUN, creatinine, calcium, phosphorus, iron, T-protein, albumin, globulin …
Morbidly obese white female…
Complains of joint pain, lethargy, fatigue…
Onset of symptoms 23 mo. ago, steady weight gain of nearly 50 kg…
Thyroid function normal…
All endocrine systems normal, except for glucose of 123. Glucose tolerance borderline, possible prediabetic condition, probably secondary to obesity.
BP: 149/96. Borderline hypertension, probably secondary to obesity.
Repeat of blood work, urinalysis, X rays, CAT scans…
No MD’s name that matched any of Grant Rushton’s incarnations.
The last notation read: Psychiatric consultation suggested, but patient refused….
Of course she had.
Too late for confession.
On the way out, I stopped at a pay phone and checked in with my service.