W is for Wasted

I wasn’t sure what to say. I had no guarantee he’d actually told her the whole truth and nothing but the truth so I was reluctant to interject a comment. “Can I have a few minutes of your time?”

“Why not? I’m leaving, so it’s lucky you caught me when you did. We can talk while I pack.”

I followed her into the apartment. Willard was clearly somewhere else so I didn’t bother asking about him. She proceeded to the bedroom, which was small and painted white. The bed was neatly made and a big soft-sided suitcase was sitting open on the spread. This was a room where the couple didn’t seem to spend much time. Tidy, but no books. No easy chair, no reading lamp, and no photographs. The closet doors were open, and I could see that the space had been divided democratically: a quarter for him, three quarters for her.

I took a position at the foot of the bed while she resumed her packing. She removed a pair of slacks from a hanger and folded them neatly before she placed them in the right half of the open suitcase. She had a packet of tissue paper on the bed, and she’d stuffed a sheet into the toe of each shoe before she tucked the pair in along the sides. She’d already packed underwear and sweaters.

I said, “Where will you go?”

“A motel for the next few days. After that, I don’t know.”

“Did Willard explain why I was here?”

“Because you’re a friend of the detective he hired.”

“Not a friend. He was someone I’d worked with in the past.”

“He sure had Willard wrapped around his little finger. I still can’t believe he hired a guy to follow me. What was going on in his head?”

“I guess he was feeling insecure.”

“He’s an idiot. I wish I’d realized it earlier.”

“He told me you quit your job.”

“That’s a move I’ll live to regret,” she said. “Jobs are scarce. I’ve been putting out résumés for two months and getting no response. From now on I’ll mind my own business, assuming I ever work again.”

She returned to the closet, picked two hangers off the rod, and returned to the bed. She removed a dress from each of the hangers and folded them, using tissue paper to minimize wrinkling.

“Pete taped a telephone conversation between you and Owen Pensky.”

“That’s nice. Did he plant cameras in the apartment so he could watch my every move?”

“He probably would have if he thought he could get away with it.”

She moved to the chest of drawers behind me and checked the first and second drawers. The first was empty. From the second drawer she removed a stack of neatly folded T-shirts that she placed in the left side of her suitcase. “Why are you so interested?”

“I’m distantly related to Terrence Dace.”

She fixed a look on me. “I’m sorry. I forget sometimes that life is about more than just me.”

“Do you believe Dr. Reed was responsible for what happened to Terrence?”

“Are you asking if I believe it or if I can prove it?”

“Either one.”

“I don’t think Dr. Reed’s responsible in the same way a drunk driver’s responsible in a hit-and-run fatality. All he was doing was protecting his own interests. Terrence Dace was collateral damage.”

“You know he stole three medical charts. His own, Charles Farmer’s, and Sebastian Glenn’s,” I said.

“I wasn’t aware of it, but good for him. Sebastian Glenn was the first death. Linton thought it was a fluke.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“One is a fluke. Three is a pattern.”

“Did they have something in common? A condition or a disease that put them at risk?”

“It’s possible they had health issues. Prediabetic or undiagnosed diabetes. Heart problems. I really have no idea. Most patients did fine on Glucotace. I had no access to the medical clinic where they were seen. I worked in the same lab with Linton, but not on the clinical trials he ran.”

“You told Owen Pensky that Dr. Reed shredded something. I’m not sure what it was. I only heard your half of the conversation.”

“Raw data. The printout was sitting on his desk. I caught a glimpse of the graph he’d done, which was a duplicate of one he’d used in an earlier trial. How stupid is that? You’d think if he was going to cheat, he’d be more imaginative.”

“So he was, what, misrepresenting his results?”

“It’s called trimming. If any values were too far out of line, he made adjustments.”