Dante's Poison Page 5

  It was raining heavily the next morning so I took the bus, a mode of transportation that had become considerably less taxing since the Chicago Transit Authority invested in a GPS tracking system. Not everyone was a fan. The cash-strapped city fathers were always on the lookout for new ways to raise revenue—one of the more creative schemes being a sale leaseback of the Chicago Skyway, one of the main thoroughfares into the city, a few years back—and the grant of a twenty-five-year license to the system’s French supplier had left citizen watchdog groups howling in protest. I, on the other hand, greatly appreciated its new audio features, which had all but eliminated my need to ask embarrassing questions of strangers. Buses now came standard with loudspeakers that announced each stop, and I had only to press a button in my shelter to know which one was pulling up. The CTA had even splurged on a special locator tone for the button, in case I couldn’t be counted on to remember where it was hiding.

  When I got to my office building, Mike was once again absent from his station by the door. I had a special reason for looking after his welfare, so after fruitlessly calling his name a few times, I went over to ask Richard, the security guard, if he knew what was going on.

  “Nope. I haven’t seen him since last week,” Richard said. “You worried about him?

  I nodded. For as long as I’d worked there, Mike had never missed a day of selling Streetwise, the newspaper put out by a local homelessness-empowerment group. Somewhere in his sixties, Mike was known to all the building’s occupants for his brightly colored tie-dyed clothing and irrepressible gold-toothed smile. Living on the streets wasn’t good for his health, and recently I’d noticed a rattle in his chest that wasn’t there six months ago. I’d been trying to get him upstairs to be examined by one of my colleagues, but so far he’d steadfastly refused, explaining that he’d wait until the new state health exchange was up and running to see a doctor. Mike, I’d come to learn, hated all forms of charity.

  “I’m worried about the old man too,” Richard said. “Did you know he used to play backup for Buddy Guy?”

  “No kidding. How’d he get from there to the streets?”

  “The usual. Got hooked on smack and did a fiver at Dixon, where he got cornered and shanked in a fight. Messed up his fret hand so he couldn’t play anymore. When he got out, Buddy offered him work doing odd jobs at Legends, but Mike was too proud to take it, and there isn’t a whole lot of other work out there for ex-cons. Had a wife once, but she divorced him when he went to prison.”

  I was surprised. “How’d you get him to tell you all that?” I’d also learned from experience that Mike didn’t like to talk about himself.

  “I didn’t. I recognized him on the back of an old album cover when I was at Jazz Record Mart and did some asking around at the clubs. I play blues guitar myself, and a few of the old-timers filled me in on the story. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  I agreed. “Do you think any of them will know what’s happened to him?”

  “I doubt it, but it can’t hurt to ask. Want me to make a few calls?”

  “I’d really appreciate it. If he doesn’t turn up soon, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “No sweat. Give me a couple of hours until I get turned loose here, and I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “If you do hear anything, will you call me right away?” I pulled out a business card and pen and scribbled my home phone number on the back. “Here if you can’t get me on my cell. Even if it’s the middle of the night, I’d rather find out that he’s OK. And while we’re at it, why don’t you put your number in my cell, too.” I handed him my card and my phone.

  “You betcha,” Richard said, taking them and observing that my handwriting wasn’t half-bad.

  “Catholic school,” I said. “My knuckles are still smarting from Sister Ursula’s ruler.”

  Before heading upstairs, I stopped at the Argo Tea franchise in the lobby for my morning caffeine jolt, listening on my phone to the baseball stats while I waited on line. The Mets appeared to be gearing up for yet another epic September fail, with series against the Nationals, Braves, and Phillies on the horizon and their star hitter in a slump after catching a mysterious disease that team doctors had first diagnosed as jungle fever. At least they got the fever part right.

  I arrived at my office just in time to find Yelena exiting in a cloud of Obsession. It was one of her signatures, along with a shoe collection that would have done Imelda Marcos proud.

  “‘But soft, methinks, I scent the morning air,’” I said.

  Yelena snorted. “Not Hamlet again.”

  “It’s not cheerful enough for you? Maybe you’d prefer King Lear.”

  “Yes, if it’s the part where the blind man is murdered. There’s a package for you.”

  “Where?”

  “I put it on your desk.”

  “Great. Would it be too much trouble to say who it’s from?”

  “Mr. Halloran. His assistant called to be sure it got here.”

  “Imagine the exertion that required. Did you open it?”

  Yelena sighed loudly and followed me back in. I heard her tearing at the packet while I hung up my raincoat. “Chyort voz’mi!” she swore suddenly. “I just broke a nail.”

  “Good thing it’s Monday, then,” I commiserated. Yelena adhered to a strict grooming schedule that left little time for such annoyances as opening mail and answering the phone. I would have complained to her supervisor, but Josh, who shared her services with me, had advocated a Neville Chamberlain approach, pointing out that we’d never get her fired under her union contract. Monday afternoons were reserved for her bi-weekly manicure.

  “What’s it look like inside?”

  “A letter from Mr. Halloran, saying he is enclosing some notes.”

  “What’s with the letter?”

  “The notes, of course.”

  “I meant are they printed or handwritten?”

  I heard another disgruntled sigh.

  It figured. “Too bad,” I said.

  Yelena pretended not to hear me.

  “C’mon,” I said reasonably. “You know the scanner doesn’t work with handwriting. It’s either transcribe them or read them to me, and you know how much you hate spending time by my side.”

  “True,” Yelena said. “But there must be twenty pages here.”

  I did a quick calculation of how much time off this was worth. “I’ll let you leave an hour early today.”

  “Make it an hour and a half and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “OK, but you’ll have to clear it with Dr. Goldman, too.”

  “I will, but he never says no.”

  “And thanks for being such a sport.”

  “‘I must be cruel only to be kind,’” Yelena said, adding—in case I didn’t get it—“Hamlet to Gertrude, Act III, Scene Four.”

  Touché, I thought, shaking my head as she waltzed out the door.

  The rest of the day, my mind was only half on my work while I waited for news from Hallie. Before becoming involved in Charlie’s case, I’d always thought bail was available to all those accused of a crime, the only issue being how much of their life savings they had to pony up to secure their release while the charges were pending. Not so I discovered in Illinois, where bail could be denied outright in homicide cases based on the strength of the prosecution’s case. Hallie would try to broker a deal for Jane, but if the State’s Attorney didn’t bite, there would have to be a hearing to decide whether there was enough evidence to hold her.

  Hallie didn’t get back to me until almost closing hour.

  “What do you know about eyewitness testimony?” she demanded as soon as I’d picked up.

  “You’re asking me?

  “Why not? There has to be a heavy psychological component.”

  “I’ve never looked into it myself, but I know there’s a lot of literature on the subject.”

  “Good. You’ll have to get up to speed on it quickly.”

  �
�Whoa,” I said. “Slow down. Last time we talked I was just going to consult on some medications. Now you want me to become an authority on lineups? What’s going on? Did you have the bail hearing?”

  “Not yet. I asked that it be put over until Friday. It means Jane will have to spend a few more nights in the lockup, but she seems to be bearing up OK and I need the time to prepare.”

  I sat back and listened while she filled me in on some of the details that had been missing from our last discussion. It seemed that Jane had been doing legal work for Atria—quite a bit of it in fact—and had just won a defense verdict in a case involving Lucitrol: a wrongful death suit brought by the widow of a bipolar man who’d suffered a heart attack after starting on the medication. Jane had prevailed by shifting the blame to the state-run mental-health clinic that treated the man, arguing that its harried staff had failed to perform a full cardiac workup on the victim before writing the prescription. Not surprisingly, there were samples of Lucitrol all over Jane’s office, along with reams of information about the drug’s dangerous side effects.

  “Well,” I said, “that explains why the police might be interested in her.”

  “Wait,” Hallie said. “There’s more. Jane was with Gallagher on the night he died.”

  My ears pricked up. “Where?”

  “At Gene and Georgetti’s. I can’t believe anyone still goes to that dinosaur, but it was another of Gallagher’s hangouts. A couple of witnesses saw the two of them there, tying on a few, and are willing to testify that they were arguing about something.”

  “What does Jane say?”

  “That they had a couple of drinks, and that was all.”

  “But the police don’t believe her.”

  “No, and I’m not sure I do, either. I can’t put my finger on it, but she’s being cagey about the facts. She says she doesn’t really remember much about that night. Jane has a mind like a steel trap. It’s hard for me to believe she can’t give me a minute-by-minute replay.”

  “Have you raised that with her?”

  “Not in so many words. She blames it on the sleeping pill she took right after she came home. She claims it put her out almost immediately and she didn’t wake until the following morning.”

  “That doesn’t sound impossible,” I said. “Short-term memory loss is common with sleeping pills, especially when taken on top of alcohol.”

  “Yes, but the prosecution has a witness, a woman who was out walking her dog near Gallagher’s townhouse that night—right as Gallagher was being rushed from the Billy Goat to the emergency room. She’ll testify that she saw Jane—or someone fitting her description—letting herself into the place. Jane denies it, but I have a bad feeling, call it an intuition if you like, that Jane was there. She admits she had a key to his place.”

  “The police aren’t claiming Gallagher was poisoned at home, are they?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the significance then?”

  “Gallagher’s computer. Naturally the police thought to go through his hard drive, but when they turned it on it was wiped clean. No backup CDs or thumb drives in the home, either. To make matters worse, Jane’s IT person had just ordered a disk-wiping software package for the firm. They were upgrading to new PCs, and the techie wanted to be sure there was no privileged information on the old ones before they were disposed of. She could have just downloaded the program, but she’s a careful sort and went instead for the CDs, which were sitting in plain view on her desk when Jane was arrested. Jane’s fingerprints weren’t on them, but it’s another bad fact.”

  “So what would be Jane’s motive for getting rid of Gallagher’s data?

  “The prosecution’s theory is that she went looking for love letters to another woman, discovered them, and destroyed the files in an act of rage. They were contacted by the woman, who’ll testify that Gallagher was ready to call it quits with Jane on the night he died. They’ll say that’s what the two of them were fighting about at the restaurant, and that’s where Jane slipped him the pill. Anyway, I can’t help feeling the two things are connected—Gallagher’s missing data and Jane being ‘unable’ to remember. Of course, if there is a connection, Jane’s smart enough not to tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An attorney can’t ethically advance a claim they know to be false. It’s why criminal lawyers go to great lengths to avoid asking their clients if they’re guilty. Jane understands that better than anybody. If she’s not telling me the truth, it’s to protect me.”

  I was beginning to catch on to the problem. “Hallie, is this your roundabout way of telling me you think Jane might be guilty?”

  She sighed. “I never ask that question about a client. Right now, all I have is a suspicion, and I want it to stay that way. But the whole thing worries me, along with how I’m ever going to get her out of jail. My old office decided it was a conflict for anyone there to try Jane, so I’m dealing with the bastards up in Lake County. I offered them five mil plus home detention, but they wouldn’t even consider it. Bjorn’s already hitting the streets—”

  “Bjorn?”

  “My new investigator. But it’s not likely he’ll find anything before the hearing. Right now, the only tangible evidence linking Jane to the crime is the eyewitness. I need to shut down her testimony fast, and I’ll never be able to find a better expert in time. Will you do it?”

  “If you don’t think my credibility will be questioned.”

  “I know it’s ironic, but just let them try to make something of it. And the one good thing that’s happened is that the Assistant State’s Attorney they’re sending down to the hearing is a total newbie. He’ll never know how to deal with you.”

  It’s sometimes said that there are two types of psychiatrists: those who have experienced a patient’s suicide, and those who will someday. Ira Levin had just joined the first and more-populous group, and he was clearly still smarting over it.

  “No, I didn’t write Rosemary’s Baby,” he said, giving me a jittery handshake, “and no, I didn’t have reason to think Danny Carpenter was a suicide risk.” Explaining the former, he told us that he’d been named after his maternal grandfather, who’d passed shortly before he was born. Under Jewish tradition, this freed up his grandfather’s name for future generations and, being a fan of the book, Levin’s dad couldn’t resist.

  “Your father must have had a sense of humor,” Rusty said.

  “He had to,” Levin replied. “He was a pathologist for Cook County.”

  It was Wednesday noon, and we were gathered at Rusty’s offices on Hubbard Street, in a Victorian building that once housed the Chicago Criminal Courts and was studded with history. Leopold and Loeb had been tried there, along with Shoeless Joe Jackson, and its fourth-floor pressroom had been the hangout of such literary lions as Carl Sandburg and Sherwood Anderson. This no doubt explained the building’s appeal to Rusty, whose shop occupied the top floor and included, among other amenities, a mock courtroom and a half basketball court. I wondered which one got more use. Our conference room had towering windows and a table that could have accommodated the National Security Council, in addition to a groaning board of sandwiches and soft drinks. After being steered there by Rusty, I randomly picked out one of each and slid into one of the Aeron chairs arranged around the table, stowing my cane on the floor. Rusty followed me, taking the seat to my right.

  “So you grew up locally?” Rusty asked Levin, who was still hovering somewhere near the door. “Please, sit down. And have something to eat.”

  “On the Northwest Side,” Levin said, selecting some lunch items and sinking into a chair opposite us. “It’s where most families like ours ended up.” He launched into a brief history of the sixties and seventies in Chicago, when blockbusting was making realtors rich and the city’s white population was fleeing to the suburbs. In an effort to stanch the hemorrhaging, the city council had amended the municipal code to require all of its employees to reside within its boundaries. Even witho
ut all the patronage jobs it was a clever idea, and one that had probably saved Chicago from a fate worse than death—namely, Detroit’s. “My father worked for the County, so we didn’t have to stay in the city, but he had a lot of friends on the police force, so we moved with them. Where we lived in Edison Park every other kid’s dad was a fireman or a cop,” Levin explained, “and practically everyone attended Catholic schools. I obviously couldn’t, so my parents sent me to Solomon Schechter.”

  Rusty used this as a springboard for a series of questions about Levin’s education, taking him through college at the University of Illinois and medical school at Wisconsin, where he had also done his residency. A two-year fellowship in child psychiatry at UCSF followed, after which Levin had moved back to the Chicago area. While they were talking, I removed the toothpicks from my sandwich and discovered the mystery meat inside to be turkey—not my favorite but better than one of the vegan offerings everyone now seemed compelled to offer.

  “I wanted to stay in the Bay Area, but my parents were ailing, and my wife wanted to be closer to her family in Milwaukee,” Levin was saying. “So we came back and settled in Glencoe. Other than the weather, I have no regrets. It’s a good place to raise a family and I can actually talk to some of my patients.”

  The small talk seemed to have calmed him down some.

  “So you do traditional therapy, then?” I asked, swallowing the last of my sandwich and wiping my face with a napkin. From what I could tell, Levin hadn’t yet taken a bite of his.

  “Whenever the patient—or more accurately, his or her parents—can afford it, which in that area is quite a few. It takes up eighty percent of my practice.”

  I was beginning to like him.

  Most people visiting a psychiatrist for the first time have been conditioned to expect a concerned, nonjudgmental professional who will spend long hours ferreting out their childhood traumas while they relax on a couch in a tastefully appointed room. But advances in drug treatments, along with simple economics, have long rendered that picture obsolete. These days, the majority of psychiatrists are psychopharmacologists, doling out whatever cocktail is called for by their patients’ symptoms and referring them elsewhere for counseling. A doctor can see four times as many patients an hour in a practice devoted to prescribing and monitoring medications, and while most patients do better with talk therapy, it’s expensive and infrequently covered by insurance plans. I’d resisted the trend as much as I could—I hadn’t gone to medical school to become a glorified pill pusher—but it was easy to see why many psychiatrists, especially those in private practice, would opt for the more lucrative alternative.