She stared at him with a face suddenly drained white. And she said softly: "I refuse to answer any more questions, Detective Katzka."
Seconds after the policeman left the library, Abby reached in panic for the nearest telephone and paged Mark. To her relief, he immediately answered her call.
"That detective was here again," she whispered. "Mark, they know about Mary Allen. Brenda's been talking to them. And this cop's asking questions about how she died."
"You didn't tell him anything, did you?"
"No, I-' She took a deep breath. The sigh that followed was close to a sob. "I didn't know what to say. Mark, I think I gave it away. I'm scared and I think he knows it."
"Abby, listen. This is important. You didn't tell him about the morphine in your locker, did you?"
"I wanted to. Jesus, Mark, I was ready to spill my guts. Maybe I should. If I just came out and told him everything-'
"Don't."
"Isn't it better to just tell him? He'll find out anyway. Sooner or later, he'll dig it all up. I'm sure he will." She let out another breath, and felt the first flash of tears sting her eyes. She was going to be sobbing in a minute, right here in the library, where anyone could see her. "I don't see any way around it. I have to go to the police."
"What if they don't believe you? They take one look at the circumstantial evidence, that morphine in your locker, and they'll jump to the obvious conclusion."
"So what am I supposed to do? Wait for them to arrest me? I can't stand this. I can't." Her voice faltered. In a whisper she repeated, '! can't."
"So far the police have nothing. I won't tell them a thing. Neither will Wettig or Parr, I'm sure of it. They don't want this out in the open any more than you do. Just hold on, Abby. Wettig's doing everything he can to get you reinstated."
It took her a moment to regain her composure. When at last she spoke again, her voice was quiet but steady. "Mark, what if Mary Allen was murdered? Then there should be an investigation. We should bring this to the police ourselves."
"Is that what you really want to do?"
"I don't know. I keep thinking it's what we ought to do. That we're obligated. Morally and ethically."
"It's your decision. But I want you to think long and hard about the consequences."
She already had. She'd thought about the publicity. The possibility of arrest. She'd gone back and forth on this, knowing what she should do, yet afraid to take action. I'm a coward. My patient's dead, maybe murdered, and all I can worry about is saving my own goddamn skin.
The hospital librarian walked into the room, wheeling a squeaky cart of books. She sat down at her desk and began stamping the inside covers. Whap. Whap.
"Abby," said Mark. "Before you do anything, think."
"I'll talk to you later. I've got to go now." She hung up, and went back to the table, where she sat down and stared at the stack of photocopied journal articles. This was the extent of her work today. This was what she'd spent all morning doing, collecting this pile of paper. She was a physician who could no longer practise, a surgeon banished from the OR.The nurses and house staff didn't know what to make of it all. She was sure the rumours were already swirling thick and furious. This morning, when she'd walked through the wards looking for Dr. Wettig, the nurses had all turned to look at her. What are they saying behind my back? she wondered.
She was afraid to find out.
The whap, whap had ceased. She realized the librarian had stopped stamping her book covers and was now eyeing Abby.
Like everyone else in this hospital, she, too, is wondering about me.
Flushing, Abby gathered up her papers and carried them to the librarian's desk.
"How many copies?"
"They're all for Dr. Wettig. You can charge them to the residency office."
"I need to know the exact count, for the copier log. It's our standing policy."
Abby set the stack of papers down and began counting pages. She should have known the librarian would insist. This woman had been at Bayside forever, and she'd never failed to inform each new crop of interns that, in this room, things were done her way. Abby was getting angry now, at this librarian, at the hospital, at the mess her life had become. She finished counting the last article.
"Two hundred fourteen pages," she said, and slapped it down on the pile. The name Aaron Levi, &ID seemed to jump out at her from the top page. The article's title was: "Comparison of cardiac transplant survival rates between critically ill and outpatient recipients?The authors were Aaron, Rajiv Mohandas, and Lawrence Kunstler. She stared at Aaron's name, shaken by the unexpected reminder of his death.
The librarian, too, noticed Aaron's name and she shook her head. "It's hard to believe Dr. Levi's gone."
"I know what you mean," Abby murmured.
"And to see both those names on the same article?The woman shook her head.
"Excuse me?"
"Dr. Kunstler and Dr. Levi."
"I'm afraid I don't know Dr. Kunstler."
"Oh, he was here before you came." The librarian closed the copier log and primly slid it back onto her bookshelf. "It must have happened six years ago, at least."
"What happened six years ago?"
"It was just like that Charles Stuart case.You know, the man who jumped off the Tobin Bridge. That's where Dr. Kunstler jumped."
Abby focused again on the article. On the two names at the top of the page. "He killed himself?."
The librarian nodded. "Just like Dr. Levi."
The clatter of mahjongg tiles being stirred on the dining table was too loud to talk over. Vivian shut the kitchen door and went back to the sink, where she'd set the colander of beansprouts. She resumed snapping off the shrivelled tails and throwing the tops into a bowl.
Abby didn't know anyone bothered to snap off beansprout roots. Only the goddamn nitpicky Chinese, Vivian told her. The Chinese spent hours labouring over some dish that's devoured in minutes. And who noticed the tails, anyway?Vivian's grandmother did. And her grandmother's friends did. Put a dish of beansprouts with the tails still attached in front of those ladies, and they'd all wrinkle their noses. So here was the obedient granddaughter, the gifted surgeon soon to be opening her own practice, concentrating on the weighty task of snapping sprouts. She did it swiftly, efficiently, every movement vintage Vivian. The whole time she listened to Abby's story, those graceful hands of hers never fell still.
"Jesus," Vivian kept murmuring. "Jesus, you are screwed."
In the next room the clatter of tiles had stopped, the new round of play begun. Every so often, through the buzz of gossip, there'd be a clunk as someone tossed a tile into the centre. "What do you think I should do?" said Abby. "Either way, DiMatteo, he's got you."
"That's why I'm talking to you. You've been screwed by Victor Voss. You know what he's capable of."
"Yeah." Vivian sighed. "I know too well."
"Do you think I should go to the police? Or should I ride this out and hope they don't dig any deeper?"
"What does Mark think?"
"He thinks I should keep my mouth shut."
"I agree with him. Call it my inherent distrust of authority. You must have more faith in the police than I do, if you're thinking of turning yourself in and hoping for the best." Vivian reached for a dish towel and dried her hands. She looked at Abby. "Do you really think your patient was murdered?"
"How else do I explain that morphine level?"
"She was already getting it. And probably tolerant enough to need sky-high levels just to stay comfortable. Maybe the doses finally accumulated."
"Only if she got an extra dose. Accidentally or intentionally."
"Just to set you up?"
"No one ever checks morphine levels on terminal cancer patients! Someone wanted to make sure her murder didn't slip by unnoticed. Someone who knew it was murder. And sent that note to Brenda Hainey."