David struggled to suppress a yawn. This encounter with Dr. Holster was beginning to remind him of medical school.
“We still have the cobalt machine,” Dr. Holster said. “It’s in the hospital basement. The hospital has been in the process of selling it to either Paraguay or Uruguay, I can’t remember which. That’s what most hospitals do when they upgrade to a linear accelerator like this one: sell the old machine to a developing country. The machines are still good. In fact, the old machines have the benefit of rarely breaking down since the source is always putting out gamma rays, twenty-four hours a day, rain or shine.”
“I think I’ve already taken too much of your time,” David said. He hoped to extricate himself from this meeting before Holster went on for another half hour.
“Dr. Hodges was quite interested when I gave him the tour,” Dr. Holster said. “When I mentioned the fact that the old machines have this one benefit over the new ones, his face lit up. He even wanted to see the old machine. How about you? Want to run over there?”
“I think I’ll pass,” David said. He wondered how Helen Beaton and Joe Forbs would react if he returned to the hospital so soon after being shown the door.
A few minutes later David was on his bike crossing over the Roaring River on his way home. His morning had not been as productive as he would have liked, but at least he’d gotten the social security numbers and birth dates.
As he pedaled, his thoughts returned to what he had learned about Hodges’ lunch with Dr. Holster. He wished that Hodges had shared whatever suspicions he’d been harboring with the radiotherapist. Then David recalled Dr. Holster’s description of Hodges’ face lighting up when he learned of the old cobalt machine’s virtue of rarely breaking down. David wondered if Hodges had really been interested or if it was a case of Holster projecting his own enthusiasm on his captive audience. David figured it was probably the latter. Holster had probably come away with the impression that even David had been utterly riveted as far as the tour of the linear accelerator was concerned.
After sleeping late Calhoun didn’t get back to Bartlet until midmorning. As he drove into town he decided to attack the list of hospital workers with tattoos alphabetically. That put Clyde Devonshire first.
Calhoun stopped off at the diner on Main Street for a large coffee to go, plus a look at the phone book. Armed with the five addresses, he set off for Clyde’s.
Devonshire lived above a convenience store. Calhoun made his way up the stairs to the man’s door and rang the bell. When there was no answer, he rang again.
Giving up after a third try, Calhoun went downstairs and wandered into the convenience store where he bought himself a fresh pack of Antonio y Cleopatra cigars.
“I’m looking for Clyde Devonshire,” he told the clerk.
“He went out early,” the clerk said. “He probably went to work; he works lots of weekends. He’s a nurse at the hospital.”
“What time does he usually return?” Calhoun asked.
“He gets back about three-thirty or four unless he does an evening shift.”
On his way out, Calhoun slipped back up the stairs and rang Devonshire’s bell yet again. When there was still no response, he tried the door. It opened in.
“Hello!” Calhoun called out.
One of the benefits of not being on the police force any longer was that he didn’t have to concern himself with the niceties of legal searches and probable cause. With no compunction whatsoever, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.
The apartment was cheaply furnished but neat. Calhoun found himself in the living room. On the coffee table he discovered a stack of newspaper clippings on Jack Kevorkian, the notorious “suicide” doctor in Michigan. There were other editorials and articles about assisted suicide.
Calhoun smiled as he remembered telling David and Angela that some strange things would pop up about their tattooed group. Calhoun thought that assisted suicide and euthanasia shared some areas of commonality and that David might like to have a chat with Clyde Devonshire.