Fletcher leaned forward and pulled the cloth from Corrigan’s mouth. The man’s chest heaved as he sucked in air. Inbetween the rapid breaths Fletcher heard the ticking from the antique grandfather clock sitting in the room’s corner. Corrigan glanced at it as he spoke.
‘Who are you?’ He had a light and airy voice. Educated. ‘What do you want?’
‘As for who I am, think of me as a borrowed angel — your borrowed angel, Mr Corrigan, sent from on high to unburden you of your sins. Now let me explain what I want.
‘The path to salvation can be very straight and narrow, but I should warn you, I’m someone who finds dishonesty unspeakably ugly. Please bear that in mind before you answer my questions. If I feel you’re lying to me, I’ll use this on your fingers.’ Fletcher tapped the meat cleaver resting on the man’s dinner plate. ‘If that doesn’t help clarify your priorities, I’ll move on to the more sensitive items residing a few inches south of your navel. Do we have an understanding?’
The man nodded, swallowing.
‘Good.’ Fletcher leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He draped his arm on the table, resting his fingers next to the handle of the cleaver. ‘We’ll start with an easy question. The gentleman tied up in the upstairs bedroom: what’s his name?’
Corrigan swallowed. ‘Timmy.’
‘Does Timmy have a last name?’
‘I’m sure he does, but I don’t know it.’
‘And why, pray tell, is Timmy hooked up to an IV?’
‘He’s dehydrated. Some sort of stomach flu.’
‘He has a number of needle marks on his arms.’
‘He’s a junkie,’ Corrigan said. ‘Heroin, I was told.’
‘Told by whom? The woman who owns this house?’
‘What woman? What are you talking about?’
‘The one with the black hair pulled back into a bun. The one with the fur coat. Where is she? What’s her name?’
‘I don’t know anything. This is my first time here.’
Fletcher sighed. ‘Does Mr Jenner live here?’
Corrigan went a little pale.
Fletcher held up the man’s iPhone. ‘I examined the call log,’ he said, and then placed the phone on the table. ‘Over the past three hours I noticed seven incoming and outgoing calls between you and someone named Jenner. I checked your contacts and saw a listing for Jenner but no first name or address, just a cell-phone number. Enlighten me.’
‘I don’t know if Jenner is the man’s first name or his last.’
‘Is this his house?’
‘I don’t know.’ Corrigan stole another glace at the clock. ‘Whatever this is about, I’ve — ’
‘Why did you tie your patient’s hands to the headboard?’
‘Jenner did that. He didn’t want Timmy to rip the IV out of his arm. I had to get fluids in him. He called me — Jenner — he called and asked that I come over to treat Timmy.’
‘You inserted the IV?’
Corrigan paused a beat, considering the question. ‘I was a nurse a long time ago.’
‘Why did you give it up, Mr Corrigan?’
‘It gave me up. Cutbacks. The economy.’
‘I see. And when did you give up practising surgery?’
‘I don’t know what — ’
‘Your hands reek of chlorhexidine,’ Fletcher said. ‘You scrubbed your hands in the upstairs bathroom before treating your patient, didn’t you?’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m a surgeon. It’s a standard antiseptic cleaner. I use it because — ’
‘I watched you doing your hand exercises with that rubber-strengthening ball.’
Corrigan grew still, his face shiny with perspiration.
‘Then I watched you pick up your little stack of coins and check your hand for tremors. I’m assuming that’s why you take these.’ Fletcher held up the man’s plastic vial of pills. ‘One is a betablocker, and so is the other, Propranolol. These are the only two medications that, when used together, decrease surgical tremors and anxiety.’
Corrigan couldn’t mask his surprise at being found out.
‘If you’re not a surgeon, Mr Corrigan, then why are you taking these medications?’
The man didn’t answer. Beads of sweat rolled down his face.
Fletcher reached for the cleaver.
‘ Was,’ Corrigan said. ‘I was a surgeon.’
‘But you told me you were a nurse.’
Corrigan swallowed. Licked his lips and swallowed again.
‘Let’s talk about this like two civilized people, okay? I’ll tell you everything I know. It’s not much, but I’ll — ’
‘You lied to me,’ Fletcher said, picking up the meat cleaver as he stood.
33
‘ Hold on,’ Corrigan screamed, jerking against his restraints. The dining-room chair tipped back. Its arms banged against the table’s underside and the chair rocked forward. ‘ For the love of Christ just hold on a moment and let me explain! ’
Fletcher rested the tip of the cleaver against the plate. ‘Why does Mr Jenner employ a surgeon?’
‘Former surgeon. I’m a former surgeon.’ Corrigan’s breathing came hard and fast. ‘He employs me to treat people he doesn’t want to bring to the hospital. That’s all I do, I swear to God. Whatever beef you’ve got with him, it isn’t with me, so let’s just — ’
‘What, exactly, is Mr Jenner’s business?’
‘It’s none of mine,’ Corrigan said. ‘I don’t ask questions, I just take care of the medical end of things. He called and told me to come here, and I did. Timmy was already here and tied up to the bed, that’s the God’s honest truth. Jenner told me to give him the antibiotics, and I did.’
‘And Demerol.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. Timmy was going through heroin withdrawal. Jenner wanted him to sleep, so I sedated him with Demerol. Jenner tied him up because he didn’t want Timmy getting his hands on it.’
‘Dosage?’
‘A hundred milligrammes every two to three hours.’
‘IM injection or slow IV push?’
‘Push,’ Corrigan said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Who supplies the medicine, you or Jenner?’
‘Jenner. I tell him what I need and he gets it for me.’
‘And you’re saying Mr Jenner does not own this home.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who does?’
‘I don’t know, I swear to Christ — ’
‘I think you do,’ Fletcher said. ‘And I think if I apply the right amount of pressure, you’ll tell me.’
‘How many times do I have to say it? I. Don’t. Know. ’
Fletcher pulled out Corrigan’s chair at an angle, exposing the man’s right hand.
‘ You’re asking the wrong man,’ Corrigan howled, squeezing the chair’s armrest. ‘ I’m just a hired hand, I swear to God I’m telling you the truth. ’
Fletcher rested the blade against the man’s wrist and said, ‘Then tell me the name of the man and woman who own this house.’
‘ I don’t know! I don’t know! ’
Fletcher brought up the cleaver.
The veins in the man’s neck stood out like cords of rope as he screamed: ‘ I’M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH, I SWEAR TO GOD, JESUS IN HEAVEN, I DON’T KNOW WHAT JENNER DOES FOR A LIVING OR WHO OWNS THIS HOUSE OR WHO’S COMING OVER TO DINNER, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE DON’T HURT ME!’
Fletcher placed the cleaver on the table.
‘What time are your dinner guests arriving?’
Corrigan struggled to catch his breath. ‘They’re not my guests,’ he said. ‘I have no idea what time they’re coming.’
Fletcher suspected that was a lie. He suspected that every word Corrigan had spoken was a lie. Given the number of times the man had consulted the grandfather clock, Corrigan was expecting Jenner and/or tonight’s guests to be arriving shortly — perhaps within minutes. The man was stalling to save his life.
Fletcher picked up the iPhone and placed it on the doctor’s dinner plate.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re going to have a conference call with your employer,’ Fletcher said.
34