Bingham squinted across his desk at Jack. “And you’re sure you didn’t leak today’s newspaper story to the media?”
“Scout’s honor,” Jack said, holding up two fingers to form a V.
“All right, I apologize,” Bingham said. “But listen, Stapleton, keep this all under your hat. And don’t go irritating everyone under the sun, so that I start getting calls complaining about your behavior. You have a knack for getting under people’s skin. And finally, promise me that nothing goes to the media unless it goes through me. Understand?”
“As clear as a crystal,” Jack said.
Jack could rarely find an excuse to get out on his mountain bike during the day, so that it was with a good deal of pleasure that he pedaled with the traffic up First Avenue on his way to visit Dr. Daniel Levitz. There was no sun, but the temperature was pleasantly in the fifties, heralding the coming spring. For Jack, spring was the best season in New York City.
With his bike safely secured to a no parking sign, Jack walked up to the sidewalk entrance of Dr. Daniel Levitz’s office. Jack had called ahead to make sure the doctor was in, but he’d specifically avoided making an appointment. It was Jack’s feeling that a surprise visit might be more fruitful. If Franconi had had a transplant, there was definitely something surreptitious about it.
“Your name please?” the silver-haired matronly receptionist asked.
Jack flashed open his medical examiner badge. Its shiny surface and official appearance confused most people into thinking it was a police badge. In situations like this, Jack didn’t explain the difference. The badge never failed to cause a reaction.
“I must see the doctor,” Jack said, slipping his badge back inside his pocket. “The sooner the better.”
When the receptionist regained her voice, she asked for Jack’s name. When he gave it, he left off the title of doctor so as not to clarify the nature of his employ.
The receptionist immediately scraped back her chair and disappeared into the depths of the office.
Jack’s eyes roamed the waiting room. It was generous in size and lavishly decorated. It was a far cry from the utilitarian waiting room he’d had when he’d been a practicing ophthalmologist. That had been before the retraining necessitated by the managed-care invasion. To Jack, it seemed like a previous life, and in many ways it was.
There were five well-dressed people in the waiting room. All eyed Jack clandestinely as they continued to peruse their respective magazines. As they noisily flipped the pages, Jack sensed an aura of irritation, as if they knew he was about to upset the schedule and relegate them to additional waiting. Jack hoped none of them were notorious crime figures who might consider such an inconvenience a reason for revenge.
The receptionist reappeared, and with embarrassing subservience, she guided Jack back to the doctor’s private study. Once Jack was inside, she closed the door.
Dr. Levitz was not in the room. Jack sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk and surveyed the surroundings. There were the usual framed diplomas and licenses, the family pictures, and even the stacks of unread medical journals. It was all familiar to Jack and gave him a shudder. From his current vantage point, he wondered how he’d lasted as long as he had in a similar, confining environment.
Dr. Daniel Levitz came through a second door. He was dressed in his white coat complete with pocket full of tongue depressors and assorted pens. A stethoscope hung from his neck. Compared with Jack’s muscular, thick-shouldered, six-foot frame, Dr. Levitz was rather short and almost fragile in appearance.
Jack immediately noticed the man’s nervous tics, which involved slight twists and nods of his head. Dr. Levitz gave no indication he was aware of these movements. He shook hands stiffly with Jack and then retreated behind the vast expanse of his desk.
“I’m very busy,” Dr. Levitz said. “But, of course, I always have time for the police.”
“I’m not the police,” Jack said. “I’m Dr. Jack Stapleton from the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York.”
Dr. Levitz’s head twitched as did his sparse mustache. He appeared to swallow. “Oh,” he commented.
“I wanted to talk to you briefly about one of your patients,” Jack said.
“My patients’ conditions are confidential,” Dr. Levitz said, as if by rote.
“Of course,” Jack said. He smiled. “That is, of course, until they have died and become a medical examiner’s case. You see, I want to ask you about Mr. Carlo Franconi.”
Jack watched as Dr. Levitz went through a number of bizarre motions, making Jack glad the man had not gone into brain surgery.
“I still respect my patients’ confidentiality,” he said.
“I can understand your position from an ethical point of view,” Jack said. “But I should remind you that we medical examiners in the State of New York have subpoena power in such a circumstance. So, why don’t we just have a conversation? Who knows, we might be able to clear things up.”
“What do you want to know?” Dr. Levitz asked.
“I learned from reading Mr. Franconi’s extensive hospital history that he’d had a long bout with liver problems leading to liver failure,” Jack said.
Dr. Levitz nodded, which caused his right shoulder to jerk several times. Jack waited until these involuntary movements subsided.
“To come right to the point,” Jack said, “the big question is whether or not Mr. Franconi had a liver transplant.”
At first Levitz did not speak. He merely twitched. Jack was determined to wait the man out.
“I don’t know anything about a liver transplant,” Dr. Levitz said finally.
“When did you see him last?” Jack asked.
Dr. Levitz picked up his phone and asked one of his assistants to bring in Mr. Carlo Franconi’s record.
“It will just be a moment,” Dr. Levitz said.
“In one of Mr. Franconi’s hospital admissions about three years ago, you specifically wrote that it was your opinion that a transplant would be necessary. Do you remember writing that?”
“Not specifically,” Dr. Levitz said. “But I was aware of a deteriorating condition, as well as Mr. Franconi’s failure to stop drinking.”
“But you never mentioned it again,” Jack said. “I found that surprising when it was easy to see a gradual but relentless deterioration in his liver function tests over the next couple of years.”
“A doctor can only do so much to influence his patient’s behavior,” Dr. Levitz said.
The door opened and the deferential receptionist brought in a fat folder. Wordlessly she placed it on Dr. Levitz’s desk and withdrew.
Dr. Levitz picked it up and, after a quick glance, said that he’d seen Carlo Franconi a month previously.
“What did you see him for?”
“An upper respiratory infection,” Dr. Levitz said. “I prescribed some antibiotic. Apparently, it worked.”
“Did you examine him?”
“Of course!” Dr. Levitz said with indignation. “I always examine my patients.”
“Had he had a liver transplant?”
“Well, I didn’t do a complete physical,” Dr. Levitz explained. “I examined him appropriately in reference to his complaint and his symptoms.”
“You didn’t even feel his liver, knowing his history?” Jack asked.
“I didn’t write it down if I did,” Dr. Levitz said.
“Did you do any blood work that would reflect liver function?” Jack asked.
“Only a bilirubin,” Dr. Levitz said.
“Why only a bilirubin?”
“He’d been jaundiced in the past,” Dr. Levitz said. “He looked better, but I wanted to document it.”
“What was the result?” Jack asked.
“It was within normal limits,” Dr. Levitz said.
“So, except for his upper respiratory infection, he was doing quite well,” Jack said.