Dante's Wood Page 15

  “Have you made a beverage selection, sir?” the bartender asked. “We have an extensive list of cinema-inspired cocktails.”

  “Groton?” I inquired.

  “Theater major. What can I do you?”

  “Is there a house special?”

  “That would be the Mozilla. Bombay Sapphire, Chartreuse, and green tea topped with a slice of Granny Smith Apple.”

  It sounded like Raymond Burr’s worst nightmare. “No, thank you. Make it a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist.”

  “Would you like that shaken or stirred?”

  “Stirred, naturally.”

  Nancy showed up a few minutes later, smelling of Altoid mints and turpentine. “You must be Mark,” she said taking the seat next to me and slinging a heavy bag on the floor. “What a day! We’re opening a new show tomorrow and I was unpacking canvasses the whole afternoon. Between that and helping unload the floral arrangements I must have set a new world record for power lifting. I’ve got to be back there in an hour to supervise the last-minute arrangements with the caterer. I’ll have the Kimchi,” she said to the bartender.

  “I’m afraid to ask what that is,” I said.

  “A martini flavored with chili peppers and pickled cucumber. My homage to ethnicity, I suppose.”

  “Which is?”

  “Korean, of course. Kim is like Smith in Korea.”

  “Are you the manager of the gallery?”

  “No. More like an indentured servant to one of the owners. She’s a real horror show. I used to fantasize writing a chic lit novel about her—The Devil’s Own Prado I was going to call it—but someone beat me to the title first. So for much an Art Institute degree. Four years and all it qualifies me to do is sweat like a longshoreman and run out to Star­bucks every two hours. Though I guess it’s better than working at ­Starbucks. You wanted to talk to me about Shannon?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  She became hesitant. “Can I ask why? Excuse me for saying this, but you don’t look like a detective.”

  “You don’t watch enough television. But I’m not a cop. Just a friend of the young man who was arrested for Shannon’s death. There are some things about the case against him that don’t make sense. I wanted to learn more about Shannon and you seemed like a logical place to start.”

  Our martinis came and I took a mouthful. It was cold enough to freeze mercury and slipped down my throat like an eel.

  “Well, you understand I didn’t see her much the last several months. I moved out of the apartment we were sharing in December, the week before Christmas, and only talked to her two or three times since then, mostly about phone bills.”

  “How long had you lived together?”

  “Around a year. I met her just after graduation. We were sharing studio space with five other people in a warehouse up on Ravenswood. I was looking to move out of the dump I was in and Shannon had just found this great apartment in Wrigleyville she couldn’t afford on her own—top floor of a three flat and recently renovated. One thing led to another and we ended up splitting the rent.”

  “Was Shannon working at the New Horizons Center then?”

  “No. She was still trying to get by on odd jobs, waitressing and things like that, so she could paint during the day.”

  “What kind of work did she do?”

  “This is going to sound catty, but it was really derivative. All self-portraits in period costumes. Cindy Sherman was doing that eons ago. Still, it was no worse than a lot of the stuff that sells these days and I think Shannon could have gotten some collectors to buy into her premise if she’d stuck with it.”

  “But she stopped painting?”

  “Yeah. After her canvasses were turned down by a few galleries, she quit. Just like that. Said she had better things to do than wait ’til her boobs were falling off to be recognized by some gay dealer who only wanted to see pictures of guys fucking. I think she meant it as a put-down of one of our studio mates, Jules, who’d just won a prize for his homoerotic reinterpretation of The Last Supper.”

  I shuddered just thinking about it. “Could this fellow Jules have borne a grudge toward her?”

  “I doubt it. I heard another of his canvasses just got snatched up by a museum in Cleveland. Anyhow, after she stopped painting she put all her work in storage and as far as I saw never lifted a brush again.”

  “Was that why she took the job at the center?”

  “Yeah. She saw a classified in The Reader and used her degree to pass herself off as an art educator. I don’t think she liked the job very much, but it paid the bills and freed up her nights so she could party.”

  “Did she have a lot of boyfriends?”

  “Where would you like me to start?”

  “I’m mainly interested in serious relationships.”

  “Well, there was Joel Stern. He’s an investment banker in the Loop. I thought he was a real dick, but they were pretty hot and heavy until he got sent off to Hong Kong for six months. At least, that’s what Shannon said happened. I think he just got bored with her. And then there was the Invisible Man. I called him that because I never met him.”

  “Did you know his real name?”

  “Nope. Shannon wouldn’t tell me. Said the relationship had to be hush-hush because the gossip columnists would be all over the story if they found out. Said a lot about how much she trusted me.”

  “Do you remember when they started going out?”

  “Last spring sometime. I wouldn’t even have known she was seeing someone except that she was gone so much. Whoever it was never came up to the apartment and they only got together on weekends, usually on trips out of town. Suited me fine because I could have the place to myself.”

  This jibed with the vacations Marilyn Sparrow had described. “I don’t suppose you ever got a look at him?”

  “Uh-uh. He used to phone her a few minutes ahead and she’d go downstairs to wait for him.”

  “What about his car?”

  “That would have been hard to miss, even three floors up. A white Jag. But I didn’t look at the tag number if that’s what you want to know. It wasn’t like I was spying on her.”

  She seemed anxious to convince me of that fact and I wondered why.

  “Was she still seeing him when you moved out?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s part of the reason I left. Shannon came home one afternoon in a rage, starting throwing things around. I was pissed because she smashed up a few of my things and didn’t even offer to pay for them. After that, I don’t think she got out of bed for a week.”

  “When did this occur exactly?”

  “Let’s see. It was starting to get cold, so middle to late October.”

  “And she didn’t tell you what had happened?”

  “No. Shannon only shared things when she thought she could impress you. All I know is she was really upset that they broke up, like the guy actually meant something to her.”

  We’d come to the end of our drinks. The martinis packed a wallop and I was feeling the effects.

  “Mmmm,” Nancy said, clinking the ice in her glass. “That was good.”

  “Can I buy you another?”

  Evidently the drink had loosened her inhibitions. She said coyly, “I think you’re trying to get me drunk. How do I know you’re not just some pervert on the make?”

  “I used to be a Peeping Tom but my career was cut tragically short.”

  Nancy called the waiter over and ordered a second martini. I decided to play it safe by sticking with what was left of mine.

  “What caused you two to finally call it quits?”

  Nancy laughed unpleasantly. “It was so stupid. Shannon accused me of reading her diary.”

  “She kept a diary?”

  “At least that’s what I think it was. A notebook she wrote in every night before bed.”

  “A real notebook, not a computer?”

  “No, oddly enough, she wasn’t very plugged in. I mean, she had a laptop—doesn’t e
veryone?—but she didn’t spend much time networking. I think she got turned off when no one wanted to friend her on Facebook. Anyway, the notebook went missing one day and she accused me of taking it. Like I needed to know even more about her. It turned up a week later under her mattress. By that time I’d had enough. I offered to pay all of the December rent if she’d let me out of the lease for the rest of the year.”

  “And she accepted?”

  “Yeah. It surprised me because I didn’t see how she could afford the place by herself. It cost nearly four grand a month plus utilities. But she must have found a way because she never got another roommate.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Middle of February. We had coffee together, or rather I did. Shannon said she had an upset stomach and the only thing she could keep down was herbal tea. Now that I think of it, it was probably because she was pregnant like the newspapers said.”

  “Did she mention anything to you about moving away?”

  “Moving? No. Why?”

  “Something her sister said to me.”

  “Marilyn, you mean?”

  “Yes. Did you two know each other?”

  “I met her once or twice. I couldn’t believe they were sisters. I mean, Marilyn is so friendly and nice.”

  “I gather you didn’t like Shannon very much.”

  Nancy giggled. “I guess I should have known better, talking to a psychiatrist. Yes, it’s true. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but whoever took her out, that retarded kid I mean, was doing humanity a huge favor.”

  “Did she ever talk about him, mention his name?”

  “I don’t remember. It’s getting late. I should be getting back before the hag starts sharpening her claws. Unless you want to buy me another martini.”

  I said, amused, “If I do that I won’t be the only one having trouble finding the door.”

  I could feel her eyes on me. “Do you always talk that way?”

  “Which way?”

  “You know.”

  I smiled.

  Nancy giggled again, tipsily. “You should do that more often, you know. Though it must be really hard.”

  “Not at all. I just lift the corners of my mouth like this.”

  “Who’s the man behind the glasses?”

  “Someone old enough to be your father.”

  I continued to let Nancy flirt with me until it was time for her to go. Then I walked home. When I got there two messages were waiting on my answering machine. One was from O’Leary saying he’d checked into the DNA lab report. The fetus was a boy. He’d sent a copy of the report over to my office so I could see for myself, but it looked like a dead end.

  The other message was from Sep. That afternoon Nate Dickerson had filed an action with the Illinois Department of Professional Regulation seeking to have me relieved of my license to practice medicine.

  Twelve

  Sep was going relatively easy on me.

  “I’ve listened to the tape of your session with the young man. I can’t say I would have reached a different conclusion, though others will surely find fault with your, ahem, prescription.”

  That morning there had been a gaggle of reporters on the sidewalk outside my apartment building. I’d been warned to expect them. A hospital public-relations staffer named Tish phoned just before midnight to tell me she’d be at the door with a car to pick me up at 8:00 a.m. It wasn’t early enough. They swarmed me the moment I came out the door, dangling microphones and clicking cameras.

  “Doctor, is it true Charlie Dickerson was being sexually abused by the woman he killed?”

  “Can you confirm that you’ve been sued by the family for failing to report their relationship to authorities?”

  Per Tish’s instructions, I kept my mouth zipped. “Let the gentleman through, please,” she said as she nudged me ahead. I wondered whether I should have worn a newspaper over my head.

  Tish dropped me off at the hospital’s main entrance with orders to go straight to the administrative suite where the lawyers were waiting for me. “No detours,” she said. I ignored her and made a beeline for Sep’s office, stopping only to pick up the package waiting for me at Yelena’s desk. The nine-by-twelve envelope was burning a hole in my lap. Despite the trouble I was in, I was more concerned with the DNA report inside it than what might happen to me, and I was anxious to get through with Sep so I could find Josh and have him read it to me.

  “What about you?” I asked Sep. “Do you think the advice I gave the Dickersons was wrong?”

  “It was somewhat unorthodox.”

  “I see. Charlie Dickerson can be tried for murder, but heaven forbid he should be taught how to take innocent pleasure from his body.”

  “You know what I mean. The morning papers were already suggesting you may have been responsible, if only indirectly, for that young woman’s death. One of them called you ‘Dr. Feel Good.’”

  Better, I reflected sourly, than Dr. Death.

  I waved it off. “I can’t be held responsible for people’s absurd prejudices. The idea that learning how to masturbate turned Charlie into a depraved killer is laughable, even in our society.”

  “I agree with you,” Sep said. “And based on the tape, no one could claim he was a danger to the young woman. But that’s sidestepping the issue. The State Board will want to know whether Charlie was a victim of sexual abuse and if so, why you failed to recognize it. With all that’s happened since, I don’t see how you can disprove the first point.”

  “That he was being molested? Come on. Even if they did have sex together, their relationship wasn’t necessarily abusive. Charlie’s legally an adult. Shannon was only a few years older. I’m told he’s very handsome. Is it impossible that a woman of normal intelligence would develop a genuine interest in him?”

  I was grasping at straws and Sep knew it.

  “Your question is legitimate, but we both know her feelings are only one side of the equation. She was his teacher and an authority figure. Those factors alone create a high risk of undue influence, not unlike the circumstances that resulted in Charlie confessing to something he very likely didn’t do. Didn’t you testify in court that he is easily led?”

  As usual Sep had exposed the weakness in my argument with a logician’s skill.

  “Still,” Sep continued, “I agree we shouldn’t jump to conclusions without knowing more. We allow grandfathers to marry teenagers, never mind the intellectual disparity. Is that what you think went on?”

  “I have no idea what to think,” I said dispiritedly.

  I filled him in on some of the things I’d learned the day before, ending with the fact that Shannon may have sought an abortion. “Perhaps she was lonely after the breakup with her mystery lover and fell into a physical relationship with Charlie before she knew what was happening. She certainly had nothing to gain from it, and they’d only need to have sex a few times for her to become pregnant by him. If she was planning on an abortion she may have realized things had gone too far and was trying to do the right thing.”

  “That’s not beyond the realm of possibility, though it sounds out of character for the person you’ve described. When you interviewed Charlie in prison, did you question him directly about whether they’d had intercourse?”

  I shook my head in irritation, mostly with myself. “No. We didn’t know about the pregnancy then and . . . well, I confess I was being closed-minded to the idea of a relationship. I was sure his being found by her body was pure happenstance. But even if I’d wanted to ask, I doubt Charlie’s lawyer would have let me. It can be a problem when a testifying expert knows too much—as I later learned to my eternal regret.”

  “Well,” Sep said, “there’s nothing to do for it now except cooperate with the hospital’s lawyers. They’re waiting for you upstairs. They’ll want to discuss suspension, of course, to protect the institution from liability. I’ve already told them I won’t go along with it, not even on a temporary basis. As far as I’m concerned your c
onduct was entirely professional. I’m only sorry I got you into this mess.”

  Without knowing it, Sep had brought up the reason I was there.

  “What if I wanted to be suspended?” I asked.

  His reaction was swift and cutting. “This isn’t the right occasion for one of your witticisms.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re serious?”

  I nodded.

  “That,” Sep said, voice rising like a thundercloud, “would be blind folly.”

  “My specialty these days,” I said. “But not right now.”

  Sep nearly imploded. “I won’t entertain it, even for a minute.”

  “Please, Sep. There are good reasons.”

  He went on, railing at me. “I can’t imagine any. If I suspended you it would be taken as proof you were guilty of malpractice, regardless of the facts. No one would believe me later when I said you did nothing wrong. It would go heavily against you with the Board, never mind what the media would say.”

  “I know all that, but let me explain—”

  But Sep was too wrapped up in his train of thought to pay me any attention.

  “It’s an insane idea. I’m worried enough as it is about the possibility of some formal action being taken against you. With all the uproar over the murder, there’ll be intense pressure to find a scapegoat and the Board won’t find it easy to let you off with just a slap to the wrist. Frankly, I don’t understand why you’d even suggest it.” He caught himself abruptly and stopped. “Unless . . .”

  I’d been afraid the conversation would take this turn.

  When Sep resumed, he was speaking more to himself than me and his tone had turned rueful. “My God, how could I have missed it? It’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?”

  “Wait, Sep, before you—”

  “Shame on me for not seeing how much it’s affected you. You put up such a good front, I didn’t realize . . . it’s all there in the literature, the intense mourning for what’s been lost—”

  “Leave it alone,” I said. I could feel myself getting hot, not the best advertisement for proving him wrong.