The police. Of course. By now it's leaked out to them as well. Abby stared at Parr. Her throat felt too parched to produce a single word. She wondered if he was the source of the leak, then decided it was unlikely. This scandal would hurt him, too.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and Dr. Wettig walked in.
"What the hell do! do about those reporters?" he said.
"You'll have to prepare a statement, General. Susan Casado's on her way over. She'll help you with the wording. Until then, no one talks to anyone."
Wettig gave a curt nod. Then his gaze focused on Abby. "May I see your briefcase, Dr. DiMatteo?"
"Why?"
"You know why. You had no authority to search those patient records. They are private and confidential. I'm ordering you to turn over all the notes you took."
She did nothing. Said nothing.
'! hardly think an additional charge of theft is going to help your case."
"Theft?"
"Any information you gleaned from that illegal chart search was stolen. Give me the briefcase. Give it to me."
Wordlessly she handed it to him. She watched him open it. Watched him shuffle through the papers and remove her notes. She could do nothing except hang her head in defeat. Once again they had beaten her. They had made the preemptive strike, and she hadn't been prepared. She should have known better. She should have stashed the notes before coming up here. But she'd been too focused on what she would say, how she would explain herself to Wettig.
He shut the briefcase and handed it back to her. "Is that everything?" he asked.
She could only nod.
Wettig regarded her for a moment in silence. Then he shook his head. "You would have made a free surgeon, DiMatteo. But I think it's time to recognize the fact you need help. I'm recommending you seek psychiatric evaluation. And I'm releasing you from the Residency Programme, effective today." To her surprise, she heard a note of genuine regret in his voice when he added, quietly: "I'm sorry."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Detective Lundquist was a handsome blond, the ideal Teutonic specimen. He had interviewed Abby for two hours now, asking his questions while pacing around the cramped interview room. If it was a tactic designed to make her feel threatened, then it was working. In the small Maine town where Abby grew up, cops were the guys who waved at you from their cars, who walked cheerfully around town with keys clinking on their belts, and who handed out citizenship awards at high school graduations. They were not people you were supposed to be afraid of.
Abby was afraid of Lundquist. She'd been afraid of him from the moment he'd walked into the room and set a tape recorder on the table. She'd been even more afraid when he'd pulled out a card from his suit pocket and read her her rights. She was the one who'd walked into the police station of her own volition. She had asked to speak to Detective Katzka. Instead they had sent in Lundquist, and he had questioned her with the barely restrained aggression of an arresting officer.
The door opened, and at last Bernard Katzka walked into the room. To finally see someone she knew should have been a relief to Abby, but Katzka's impassive face offered no reassurance whatsoever. He stood across the table from her, regarding her with a weary expression.
"I understand you haven't called an attorney," he said. "Do you wish to call one now?"
"Am I under arrest?" she asked.
"Not at the moment."
"Then I'm free to go at any time?"
He paused and looked at Lundquist, who shrugged. "This is only a preliminary investigation."
"Do you think I need an attorney, Detective?"
Again Katzka hesitated. "That's really your decision, Dr. DiMatteo."
"Look, I walked in here on my own. I did it because I wanted to
HARVEST
talk to you. To tell you what happened. I've willingly answered all this man's questions. If you're putting me under arrest, then yes, I'll call an attorney. But I want to make it clear from the start that it's not because I've done anything wrong." She looked Katzka in the eye. "So I guess my answer is, I don't need an attorney."
Again Lundquist and Katzka exchanged glances, their meaning unclear to her. Then Lundquist said, "She' s all yours, Slug," and he moved off into a corner.
Katzka sat down at the table.
"I suppose you're going to ask all the same questions he did," said Abby.
"I missed the beginning. But I think I've already heard most of your answers."
He nodded at the mirror in the far wall. It was a viewing window, she realized. He'd been listening to the session with Lundquist. She wondered how many others were standing behind that glass, watching her. It made her feel exposed. Violated. She shifted her chair, turning her face away from the mirror, and found she was now gazing directly at Katzka.
"So what are you going to ask me?"
"You said you think someone is setting you up. Can you tell us who?"
"I thought it was VictorVoss. Now I'm not so sure."
"Do you have other enemies?"
"Obviously I do."
"Someone who dislikes you enough to murder your patient? Just to set you up?"
"Maybe it wasn't murder. That morphine level was never confirmed."
"It has been. Mrs Allen was exhumed a few days ago, at the request of Brenda Hainey. The Medical Examiner ran the quantitative test this morning."
Abby absorbed his information in silence. She could hear the tape recorder, still whirring. She sank back in her chair. There was no question now. Mrs Allen had died of an OD.
"A few days ago, Dr. DiMatteo, you told me you were being followed by a purple van."
"Maroon," she whispered. "It was a maroon van. I saw it again, today."
"Did you get a licence number?"
"It was never close enough."
"Let me see if I understand this correctly. Someone administers a morphine overdose to your patient, Mrs Allen. Then he — or she — plants a vial of morphine in your locker. And now you're being followed around town by a van. And you think these incidents were all engineered by Victor Voss?"
"That's what I thought. But maybe it's someone else."
Katzka sat back and regarded her. His look of weariness had spread to his shoulders, which were now slumped forward. "Tell us about the transplants again."
"I've already told you everything."
"I'm not entirely clear how it's connected to this case."
She took a deep breath. She'd gone over this already with Lundquist, had told him the whole story of Josh O" Day and the suspicious circumstances of Nina Voss's transplant. Judging by Lundquist's uninterested response, it had been a waste of time. Now she was expected to repeat the story, and it would be a waste of more time. Defeated, she closed her eyes. "I'd like a drink of water."
Lundquist left the room. While he was gone, neither she nor Katzka said a word. She just sat with her eyes closed, wishing it were all over. But it would never be over. She would be in this room for eternity, answering the same questions forever. Maybe she should have called an attorney after all. Maybe she should just walk out. Katzka had told her she was not under arrest. Not yet.
Lundquist returned with a paper cup of water. She drank it down in a few gulps and set the empty cup on the table.
"What about the heart transplants, Doctor?" prodded Katzka. She sighed. "I think that's how Aaron got his three million dollars. By finding donor hearts for rich recipients who don't want to wait their turn on the list."
"The list?"
She nodded. "In this country alone, we have over five thousand people who need heart transplants. A lot of them are going to die, because there's a shortage of donor hearts. Donors have to be young and in previously good health — which means the vast majority of donors are trauma victims with brain death. And there aren't enough of those to go around."