Lead investigator David Graham stated, “She looked peaceful. Classical music was playing on the radio and she’d eaten a last meal. From what I understand, Dr. Mate encourages his patients to listen to music.”
Ms. Doss, married to a businessman and the mother of two, was reported to have suffered from deteriorating health, and would be the forty-eighth person whose death Mate has facilitated. Given Mate’s success in avoiding conviction, and most recently, his indictment, authorities say it is unlikely criminal charges will be filed.
No follow-up, not even an obituary for Joanne.
No attempt by Mate to claim credit. Maybe I’d missed something. I spent another half hour combing the data banks. Not a single additional line on Joanne Doss’s final night. Because by victim number forty-eight, Mate and the Humanitron were no longer news?
Mate had hooked two additional travelers to his machine before ending up in the van himself.
The van. When had he stopped using motels?
Using Mate’s name as a keyword and limiting my search to three months before and after Joanne’s death, I pulled up three references.
Traveler forty-seven, seven weeks before Joanne: Maria Quillen, sixty-three, terminal ovarian cancer, her body deposited at the front door of the County Morgue wrapped in a frilly pink comforter. Mate’s business card
tucked into the folds. Driven in the rented van where Mate had helped her die.
Mate informed the press of the details.
Number forty-nine, one month after Joanne. Alberta Jo Johnson, fifty-four, muscular dystrophy. A black woman, the papers specified. Mate’s first African American. As if her death represented a new variant of affirmative action. Her corpse had been left at the Charles Drew Medical Center in South L.A., similarly wrapped.
Another van job. Another statement by Dr. Mate.
Now my pulse was racing. I found the fiftieth traveler, a man named Brenton Spear. Lou Gehrig’s. Van. Press conference.
Three people with definitive diagnoses. Three van jobs, three public statements—Mate chasing the press because, I was right, he loved the attention.
No word out of him on Joanne. No van.
Joanne’s death didn’t fit.
I kept searching till I found the last time he’d used a motel.
Number thirty-nine, a full two years before Joanne. Another Lou Gehrig’s patient, Reynolds Dobson, dispatched in a Cowboy Inn up near Fresno.
I reread the account of Joanne’s final night. No sight-ings of Mate in the vicinity. Attribution to Mate because circumstances had pointed to him.
Cheap motel, the risk of a traumatized maid. After nearly a year’s success with motor vehicles, it didn’t make sense.
Mate hadn’t taken credit for Joanne, because he knew he didn’t deserve it.
Then why hadn’t he come out and denied his involvement?
Because that would have made him look foolish. Displaced.
Someone horning in, a new Dr. Death, just as I’d guessed.
Broken stethoscope. Someone—Michael Burke?— making his grand entry by bathing himself in the blood of his predecessor. Hacking off Mate’s manhood— you could deny Freud had ever existed and still understand that.
But how had Joanne gotten in contact with the person who’d accompanied her to the Happy Trails Motel?
Maybe I had it all wrong and Mate had known. Had allowed his apprentice to strike out on his own.
I considered that. Joanne, ready to die, calling Mate and talking instead to an underling—let’s say Burke. Mate supervising, judging Burke’s readiness. Unaware Burke was already an expert in the fine art of cellular cessation.
Then I remembered Michael Burke’s affinity for older, seriously ill women—patients he met in hospitals—and a whole different scenario flashed.
Joanne, shuffled from doctor to doctor, enduring batteries of medical tests. MRIs, CAT scans, lumbar punctures. Procedures carried out in hospitals.
I pictured her, bloated, pain-racked, regressed to silence, waiting in yet another antiseptic waiting room for the next round of indignities, as people in white coats hurried by, no one noticing her.
Then someone did. A charming, helpful young man. MD on his badge, but he took the time to talk. How wonderful to finally encounter a doctor who actually talked!
Or perhaps Burke had been more than a drop-in. Maybe he’d actually carried out some of the tests.
Working as a technician, because he hadn’t figured out a way, yet, to bogus a new medical diploma but was well-qualified to obtain a paramedical job.