“Are these beds a frequent problem?” Calhoun asked.
“Unfortunately,” Van Slyke said.
“Since you’re head of the department, why are you doing them yourself?” Calhoun asked.
“I want to make sure it’s done right,” Van Slyke said.
Calhoun retired to the workbench and sat on a stool. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Whatever,” Van Slyke said.
“I thought the hospital was a smoke-free environment,” Calhoun said as he took out a cigar. He offered one to Van Slyke. Van Slyke paused as if he were giving it considerable thought. Then he took one. Calhoun lit Van Slyke’s before his own.
“I understand you knew Hodges pretty well,” Calhoun said.
“He was like a father to me,” Van Slyke said. He puffed his cigar contentedly. “More than my own father.”
“No kidding,” Calhoun said.
“If it hadn’t been for Hodges, I never would have gone to college,” Van Slyke said. “He’d given me a job to work around his house. I used to sleep over a lot and we’d talk. I had a lot of trouble with my own father.”
“How so?” Calhoun asked. He was eager to keep Van Slyke talking.
“My father was a mean son-of-a-bitch,” Van Slyke said. Then he coughed. “The bastard used to beat the hell out of me.”
“How come?” Calhoun asked.
“He got drunk most every night,” Van Slyke said. “He used to beat me and my mother couldn’t do anything about it. In fact, she got beat herself.”
“Did you and your mother talk?” Calhoun asked. “Kinda team up against your father?”
“Hell, no,” Van Slyke said. “She always defended him, saying he didn’t mean it after he’d kicked the crap out of me. Hell, she even tried to convince me that he loved me and that was why he was hitting me.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” Calhoun said.
“Sure as hell doesn’t,” Van Slyke said acidly. “What the hell are you asking all these questions for, anyway?”
“I’m interested in Hodges’ death,” Calhoun said.
“After all this time?” Van Slyke asked.
“Why not?” Calhoun said. “Wouldn’t you like to find out who killed him?”
“What would I do if I found out?” Van Slyke said. “Kill the bastard?” Van Slyke laughed until he began coughing again.
“You don’t smoke much, do you?” Calhoun asked.
Van Slyke shook his head after he’d finally controlled his coughing. His face had become red. He headed over to a nearby sink to take a drink of water. When he came back, his mood had changed.
“I think I’ve had enough of this chat,” he said with derision. “I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do. I shouldn’t even be monkeying around with these beds.”
“I’ll leave then,” Calhoun said as he slipped off the stool. “It’s a rule I have: I never stay around where I’m not wanted. But would you mind if I returned some other time?”
“I’ll think about it,” Van Slyke said.
After leaving engineering Calhoun made his way around to the front of the hospital and walked over to the Imaging Center. He handed one of his cards to the receptionist and asked to speak with Dr. Cantor.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.
“No,” Calhoun said. “But listen, tell him that I’m here to talk about Dr. Hodges.”
“Dr. Dennis Hodges?” the receptionist asked with surprise.
“None other,” Calhoun said. “And I’ll just take a seat here in the waiting area.”
Calhoun watched as the receptionist phoned in to the interior of the organization. Calhoun was just beginning to appreciate the architecture and lavish interior decor when a matronly woman appeared and asked him to follow her.
“What do you mean, you want to discuss Dennis Hodges?” Cantor demanded the moment Calhoun stepped through Cantor’s office door.
“Exactly that,” Calhoun said.
“What the hell for?” Cantor asked.
“Mind if I sit down?” Calhoun said.
Cantor motioned toward one of the chairs facing his desk. Calhoun had to move a pile of unopened medical journals to the floor. Once he was seated he went through the usual routine of asking to smoke.
“As long as you give me one,” Cantor said. “I’ve given up smoking except for whatever I can mooch.”