‘‘We were. The police got a call that he was down in Biscayne Park. They found him sitting on a park bench dressed in loose sweats and carrying on so loud, they thought he was drunk at first. He didn’t remember anything, either, except sitting at a bar talking to a woman he claimed was ‘a gorgeous blonde with legs up to her throat.’ ’’
‘‘Not my image of the Virgin Mary.’’
‘‘Mine, either. He at least could remember the name of the bar, but they were real busy that night after a baseball game and didn’t remember him. How did yours get in?’’
‘‘Full moon night.’’ I didn’t have to say more. Anybody who works in a hospital knows a full moon brings babies, death, and all sorts of craziness. ‘‘He was found sleeping in a corner of the emergency room.’’
‘‘It gives me the creeps. I’ve never been so glad to be a woman.’’
‘‘Me, neither. See you later.’’
I hung up and checked my watch. I’d give Lyle Bradford a couple of hours to get up to his room; then no matter what Angie said (she was bound to tell me, ‘‘I’ll take care of this one,’’ since he was, in a sense, a celebrity), I’d go welcome him. I was dying to hear his story.
The NO VISITORS sign didn’t deter me. I was hospital administration.
Mr. Bradford lay on his back watching a soap opera. He glowered as I came in. ‘‘Who the hell are you?’’
‘‘A patient counselor. I came to see if you have everything you need.’’
His glower deepened.
‘‘I mean, is there something I can get you?’’
He started up in anger, then sank back with a groan. ‘‘Yeah, there’s a couple of things you could get me if you have a spare pair. Look, I’m not a freak show, okay? I’ve already had another one of you in here.’’
‘‘That would be my boss. I didn’t know she had visited you, so I came to say if there is anything we can do to make your stay easier, just ask. Our job is to welcome patients and handle requests or complaints.’’
His language blistered my ears and singed my back hair. Cleaned up considerably, what he said was, ‘‘I got a complaint, all right. Some pirate tied me up and took my crown jewels.’’ He fingered a scrap of peach index card and squinted at something scrawled on it. ‘‘You ever hear of a guy named Randall McQuirter?’’
‘‘Sure. He’s one of our ob-gyns.’’
He laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. ‘‘You’re kidding. He’s a women’s doc?’’
‘‘Yessir.’’
What was the matter with my tongue? Angie was always telling me that middle-aged men don’t like young women calling them sir.
Lyle Bradford didn’t seem to notice. He gave that rude laugh again. ‘‘Well, from what somebody told me, that’s not all he is. If you see the bastard, tell him I want to see him pronto. Okay?’’
‘‘He’ll be here tonight making evening rounds. If I see him-’’
‘‘You find him, you hear me?’’ He punctuated every word with a pointing forefinger.
‘‘I’ll tell him.’’ I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I had a patient’s orders to seek out Dr. McQuirter after Angie had left for the day.
She went at five. ‘‘I am beat. Don’t bother visiting Mr. Bradford. I’ll take care of him.’’
‘‘I won’t,’’ I assured her.
At five thirty I started lurking in the lobby. Dr. McQuirter strolled in at six and paused in the doorway to cast a quick, worried look around. He actually took a step backward as I approached to announce, ‘‘I have a message for you.’’
He grinned down at me. ‘‘As a pickup line, I’d rather hear ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting all afternoon.’ ’’
‘‘I have,’’ I admitted, trying to keep my balance under that deep black gaze. ‘‘Lyle Bradford wants to see you. He’s in room 508.’’
‘‘I don’t know Lyle Bradford.’’ He started for the elevator.
I followed. ‘‘He came in today. I think he’s on the Orange Bowl committee.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Still doesn’t ring a bell.’’
‘‘He specifically asked to see you. Maybe he has free tickets for you or something.’’
Dr. McQuirter put his right hand in his pocket. ‘‘He asked for me by name? I’ll check with him after I’ve seen my patients. Want to meet me on five in an hour and have coffee when I’m done with him?’’
‘‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Angie,’’ I said softly as I headed on my rounds.
As soon as I stepped off the fifth-floor elevator an hour later, I heard shouting. Two orderlies were sprinting down the hall. Luis, the meds nurse (who might or might not have once been Havana’s premier cardiologist), dashed out of the nurses’ station and headed the same way. Running in heels, I made a late fourth.
We all could hear the shouted threats. ‘‘You did this to me! I’m gonna sue you for millions! Your pretty ladies will have to work night and-’’
As I reached the door of Lyle Bradford’s room, Dr. McQuirter pulled a gun out of his pocket and killed the man before he finished the sentence.
By the time of Dr. McQuirter’s trial, I had accrued some vacation days. I sat in the packed courtroom with other hospital personnel who didn’t have to testify, grateful that Luis had pushed me toward the elevator immediately after the shooting. ‘‘You were never here. Stay out of this.’’
He and the two orderlies testified that Mr. Bradford had accused Dr. McQuirter of castrating him and had then threatened the doctor. The defense attorney went after the word ‘‘threatened,’’ trying to plant the notion of self-defense. Luis refused to play. ‘‘Mr. Bradford was standing by his bed wearing only a hospital gown. Where could he hide a weapon? He was too sore to even wear boxers.’’
Every man in the courtroom squirmed.
The prosecutor put a police detective on the witness stand to testify they were seeking connections between Dr. McQuirter and the other two unsolved castration cases. The defense attorney managed to get that testimony ruled inadmissible-arguing successfully that McQuirter wasn’t being tried for castrating Mr. Bradford, just for killing him.
On the second day, the defense started its arguments and Dr. McQuirter himself took the stand. The jury seemed unimpressed by his explanation for why he was carrying a gun on rounds that evening-‘‘I’d gotten an anonymous threat that afternoon’’-and unconvinced by his reason for checking on Bradford, who had no need of an ob-gyn and was three floors above Dr. McQuirter’s other patients: ‘‘I got a message he wanted to see me.’’
I caught my breath. Would I have to testify after all? Heaven knew what Angie would do to me if she learned I’d been in Bradford’s room.
Nobody called me. Instead, Angie was called to the stand. She testified that Dr. Randall McQuirter was an excellent doctor, highly respected and loved by all his patients and the hospital staff. She gave him a dazzling smile as she stepped down. After that, physicians, nurses, ward clerks, and even Carver spoke about what a wonderful doctor Dr. McQuirter was and how he must have been seriously provoked to do what he had done.
As we left for the day, I saw Angie in the parking lot. ‘‘You sure laid it on thick in there.’’
She shrugged. ‘‘Why not? He is a good doctor, but that’s not going to keep him out of jail.’’
A good doctor? I drove home thinking about Lyle Bradford’s last words. As soon as I got in, I called another high school friend who had become an investigative reporter with the Miami Herald. She had established amazing contacts throughout Miami’s seamier element and was so tenacious about research that her nickname was Bulldog.
‘‘There’s something odd about the McQuirter case,’’ I told her.
‘‘The Teflon doc? You’re telling me. You think he castrated Bradford and those other guys?’’
‘‘I have no idea, but he didn’t shoot Bradford for saying that. He fired after Bradford starting making threats.’’