Mortal Remains Page 2

  “Hi, Doc.”

  “Well, Mr. Brady, looks like I’m your host, and you are our VIP patient this morning. Hang on. We’re going for a ride. Don’t worry, J.S. here and I just passed stretcher-driving school.”

  Together they rushed him down the hall to a resuscitation room, picking up help on the way. Earl kept up the banter so everyone would stay loose.

  “How many metal detectors did your nose set off today, J.S.?”

  “Hey, I’m a one-woman security check. You should pay me extra.” They skidded to a stop, and she immediately started to secure another IV line, this one in the groin.

  “Okay, people, listen up,” said Earl. “Who’s got the head? Who’s on the tail? We need full monitoring, bloods, type and cross for six units, and hang up two of O-negative stat.”

  “Tails,” an orderly said.

  “Heads!” called a tall, model-thin woman with a boyish haircut as she pushed through to the table and applied oxygen prongs to the man’s nose. Her name tag read SUSANNE ROBERTS, NURSING DIRECTOR. “Morning, Dr. Garnet.”

  “Glad to see you here, Susanne.”

  “What happened? You were late at being early this morning.” She’d been director of nursing for as long as he’d been chief, and knew his routine as well as her own.

  “Breakfast with Brendan.” Gloving up, he swabbed Mr. Brady below the right collarbone.

  “With competition like that, we’re lucky to see you at all.” She ripped the wrapper off a coiled green catheter, anointed one end with a glob of sterile jelly, and stood ready to pass it down the back of Mr. Brady’s throat into his stomach, but through a nostril.

  “Don’t worry. The nanny always throws me out by seven-twenty-five.” He draped a sterile towel over their patient’s chest and explained as he worked. “Now I’m injecting a bit of freezing, and then we’ll put a central line through the vein under your clavicle to better replace the volume of blood you lost with normal saline.”

  A young medical student hastily joined him, obviously eager to try the procedure. Seconds later, under Earl’s expert guidance, the boy announced, “I’ve got it!” sounding surprised at his success. He looked up, beaming proudly, and promptly broke sterile technique as he shoved a shock of curly red hair out of his eyes.

  “Good show,” Earl said. “Now change your gloves!”

  The orderly who had taken tails was draining the contents of the bladder through a tube to a transparent collecting bag marked for measuring output. A reassuring grin spread across his ebony face. “Your kidneys are working fine, Mr. Brady.”

  “Bloods drawn and gone for type and cross,” Susanne said at Earl’s ear, still waiting to pass her tube, “and GI’s been called to scope him.”

  J.S. connected her needlework to one of the overhanging bags of blood. “Femoral line’s in,” she said, her tone breezily calm.

  “Still the best hands in the business,” Earl told her as he stepped to the counter and scribbled medication orders.

  Susanne moved in with the tube.

  One of her older colleagues, a speedy, gray-haired woman who wore colorful leg warmers and Reeboks, stepped up to help her. “Now you just swallow this down, Mr. Brady…”

  Other voices reported.

  “… monitors on; patient wired…”

  “… BP and pulse holding…”

  Earl relaxed a notch as he always did once a patient was lined and they were ready for any sudden nasty turns for the worse. He glanced up at the clock. “Wow! Congratulations, everyone. A hundred-and-fifteen-point-five seconds. My buy at the next party.” He gave the dazed-looking Mr. Brady a reassuring pat on the arm. “You’re invited, too, sir, except I’m afraid you’ll be drinking milk shakes.”

  Once Susanne and he were out in the hallway, he asked, “Any other surprises to start the day?”

  “None. You still got fifteen minutes until rounds. If you promise to be good, I’ll give you my copy of the New York Herald, let you use our cappuccino machine, and not disturb you until eight.”

  “Susanne, I love you.”

  “Watch it, or I’ll tell Janet.”

  “Hey, she knows I go gaga over anyone who offers me a cappuccino, a Herald, and the time to savor them.”

  Turning back toward triage, she said, “You just used up fifteen of your seconds.”

  Behind the closed door of his office – a spartan shoe box painted institutional green – he put his feet up on a hospital-issue gray metal desk, leaned back in the high-backed, maroon Naugahyde-covered chair that came with it, and savored the first sip of a cinnamon-tinged coffee. Some days it was great to be chief.

  He felt at the top of his game. Fifty years old, lean in body and mind, he could withstand the physical rigors of emergency better than any of the Young Turks, and very few of the veterans could match him mentally. Susanne once told him her nurses had nicknamed him “The Thief” because of all the times he reached right up to the pearly gates and robbed Saint Peter of a soul already settled in for a grilling from the book of deeds. Even the departmental chaplains, she said, admitted that both God and the devil had to get up early if they wanted to beat Garnet to the punch.

  He smiled at the recollection, having learned long ago not to take what people said about him too seriously. He knew his talent – the ability to read an unfolding ER scenario three steps ahead of trouble and jump-start his team accordingly. “Proactive” the more youthful members of his staff called it. “Goddamn teaching” was the term he used. Those who couldn’t keep up, especially the administrators, had less-kind words. But they were the first to seek him out when a child, spouse, sibling, or parent was gravely ill, and a life was on the line.

  He opened the paper. Page one gave the latest details about the interminable war on terror. Yet another Homeland Security alert took up most of page two. At the bottom were adds with pouty-looking boys modeling tuxedos for sale. Real men mustn’t be a worthwhile consumer group anymore, he mused, savoring yet another sip of coffee. Then he read the lead story on page three.

  Skeletal remains found fifteen days ago in Trout Lake, adjacent to the idyllic resort community of Hampton Junction, twenty miles north of Saratoga Springs, have been identified as those of a socially prominent fourth-year medical student who disappeared over twenty-seven years ago. Retrieval of the remains was a protracted affair requiring a special team of forensic divers to sift through mud at great depth in cold temperatures. Dental records and preliminary DNA results based on a lock of the victim’s hair established that she was Kelly McShane Braden, twenty-nine years old at the time of her disappearance and the wife of Charles Braden IV, currently Chief of Cardiology at New York City Hospital.

  According to Hampton Junction coroner, Dr. Mark Roper, Ms. Braden was the victim of foul play. “A fracture of her skull indicates she sustained a blow to the head prior to going in the water. Whether she died of head trauma or drowning is impossible to distinguish,” he said yesterday, when results of his examination and testing were announced. Sheriff Dan Evans confirmed that heavy items found on and near the bones of her legs suggest her body was weighted and bound when disposed of in the deepest waters of the lake.

  Her parents, Walter McShane, founder of the prestigious firm McShane Securities, and Samantha McShane, have demanded the police reopen the investigation of their daughter’s case, but refuse to say anything further at this time. Ms. Braden’s husband, Charles Braden IV, was unavailable for comment, but according to press reports at the time of the disappearance, claimed to have last seen his wife in the early evening of Wednesday, August 7, 1974, when she left his father’s country estate near Hampton Junction to catch a train for New York. They’d taken a few extra days’ holiday, and Ms. Braden habitually followed this schedule when she had early-morning classes the next day. Dr. Braden, whose office hours began in the afternoon, did not return to the city until late Thursday morning.

  Ms. Braden’s disappearance attracted a great deal of attention. Highly regarded by her instructors, and
popular with her fellow students, she was at the top of her medical school class. Speculation at the time centered on a troubled marriage, which Dr. Braden vigorously denied, and a deliberate disappearance by Ms. Braden. The case yielded few leads. The strongest was provided by doormen at the couple’s exclusive Park Avenue apartment building, who saw Ms. Braden get into a waiting cab with a man in the backseat on Wednesday evening. She returned the following morning, leaving several hours later with a suitcase, again by cab, but alone. She was never heard from again. The identity of the man who picked her up Wednesday night is unknown.

  He lowered the paper, his stomach in free fall.

  ER faded from his mind, and the usual noises outside his door – the beeping of monitors, the chatter, someone retching – became tinny and distant.

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t say for sure how long he sat there, his thoughts and emotions reeling.

  A knock, and Susanne pushed open the door. “Sorry, Dr. Garnet, but we’re starting – My God, are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, trying to give a reassuring smile. “It’s just my stocks tanked again.” He downed the dregs of coffee from his cup in a gulp, tucked the paper into his briefcase, and joined the assembly of residents and staff who were gathered around the chart rack listening to a resident summarize the cases. Those coming on duty looked as tired as the ones who were going off. The main differences between the two were the crisp white coats and pleasant body-wash scents of the newcomers compared to the wrinkled clothing and stale odors hanging about those who’d been working all night.

  “… presented with a squeezing chest pain radiating up the side of his neck. We gave him half an aspirin, stabilized him with oxygen, nitro, and IV morphine…”

  “I need IV caffeine,” whispered one of the medical students standing nearby.

  “Sign me up,” murmured another.

  Earl barely heard any of it. The voices seemed to come at him through a hose. He thought of hair the color of sunlight turning scarlet, and felt his stomach lurch.

  “… the next patient is a man who claims his partner shoved the vibrator in too far…”

  Had she been tortured, raped, died screaming?

  He’d seen a lifetime of victims come through his ER, and needed no prompting to imagine how bad it could get. What if she hadn’t been unconscious when her killer dumped her into the lake? She would have gone to the bottom in agony for air, knowing she was going to die, praying for it even.

  He desperately tried to stop the images, but his mind poured them on, determined to scour his experience for detailed examples of what she could have been put through. It left him wanting to scream, to strangle someone, to hit back at whoever had so viciously hurt her. Yet he just stood quietly in the little crowd, his eyes brimming with tears, the ritual start to a day in ER unfolding around him as it had for over twenty years.

  “… the next patient presented with coffee-grounds vomitus and black tarry stool…”

  So many people’s stories over so many mornings, they extended back to his beginnings here, and farther, to the days of his residency, to medical school, and the time he loved Kelly.

  But he could focus only on one story, his and Kelly’s.

  He had been the man in the taxi.

  New York City

  Dr. Melanie Collins, Chief of Internal Medicine at New York City Hospital, dropped the Herald, open at page three, onto the black marble surface of her kitchen counter.

  Oh, my God! It didn’t seem possible. Not now. Not after so long. Incredulous, she kept staring at the print.

  Catching her breath, she gazed beyond the gleaming state-of-the-art appliances to the white birch floors running the length of her penthouse. The morning sun crept along the pale grain, enriching it. It would normally be her favorite moment of the day, the curtain going up on the chic, architectural masterpiece she’d created for herself – a space more fit for an upscale artist than a middle-aged physician. The light reached a long dining area with a mahogany table capable of seating twelve, a large round of white leather chairs and couches for relaxing, an entertainment center with a wide-screen television so thin she’d had it mounted on the wall amid an array of paintings – everything encircled by 180 degrees of full-length windows overlooking the Hudson River immediately to the west and downtown Manhattan to the northeast. Even the stretch of Japanese hand-painted screens that she’d had to place along the east windows glowed with a soft translucence that blended with the rest of the decor. This was her aerie, a hard-won prize for what she’d accomplished, the place where she found solace and comfort from the exhausting grind of the hospital. But the sense of inner calm it usually evoked failed to arrive. Instead, she felt a stirring of fear.

  In the far corner, elevated on a shallow platform, was the four-poster where she routinely bedded men ten years her junior. She strode past it on her way to the bathroom and a large walk-in shower. Dropping her robe, she stepped in and turned on the spray full force. Underneath the hot needles of water, she splayed her fingers over her breasts and slowly ran her hands down her exercise-sculpted body. Yet her muscles remained tense. Was she herself now in danger? It had seemed best at the time to say nothing, especially since the police never found out where Kelly went after she took the cab. But if they ever did…

  The thought sickened her. Because they would learn what she’d kept secret all these years, then come asking questions. Just the fact she hadn’t told would look bad, perhaps be enough to make her a suspect – all because she had met with Kelly McShane on the day of her disappearance.

  The University Club,

  Midtown Manhattan

  “Shit!” Dr. Charles Braden IV threw down the paper, spilling his orange juice and knocking the glass to the floor. He signaled the waiter. “Pedro, I want more coffee, now.”

  Sitting across from him, Dr. Charles Braden III frowned. “Chaz, what’s the matter?”

  Chaz shoved the article at his father, then leaned back. The older man’s handsome face remained as calm as if he were reading a weather report. Not even his posture gave any clue as to what the discovery of Kelly’s remains could mean to the family, his lean physique still seemingly relaxed.

  After skimming the article for a few seconds, he shot his son a withering look. “Now that’s just perfect, Chaz. Yes, by all means, get mad. And where everyone can see, too.”

  “Shall I bring you a fresh cup, sir?” the slim, black-haired waiter asked, dropping a white napkin over the stain and cleaning away any splashed dishes. Pedro didn’t see himself as a mere waiter. He was the protector of the propriety of the members he served. The greater the indiscretion, the more Pedro made sure his customers knew that they owed him big-time, but tantrums he handled with minimal fuss.

  Chaz looked around at the other members who were finishing up their breakfasts. The paneled dining room was only half-full. Dim recessed lighting and lush plants strategically positioned in front of the dining alcoves guarded everyone’s privacy almost as much as Pedro did. No one had so much as glanced his way.

  But that would change.

  Gossipmongers would soon be watching his every move.

  Just like before.

  And like before, they’d try to pin Kelly’s murder on him, only then it was just her disappearance.

  “I’d advise you to remain cool,” his father continued, carefully placing the paper on the table. He leaned back, the thick bristles of his steely gray hair glistening silver under the light. “After all, we knew this was coming. They did let us know about finding her remains and about the forensic report. You’ve had time to prepare yourself.” At seventy-four, the man could still sear his son’s soul with that hard blue stare of his.

  He couldn’t go through it again, the police once more poring over every detail of Kelly’s final days, probing, digging, questioning. He’d be right back in the nightmare, living in fear of a knock on the door, a phone call, a newsca
st. Chaz ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. “How can I stay cool?”

  Charles Braden leaned forward and flashed the smile that made the world jump to his wishes. “By never forgetting that you’re innocent. By remembering the police cleared you back then. By knowing I’ve already reminded a few key people in the NYPD of that fact. Trust me, they’ll be looking for someone else.”

  “What about the media?” he asked.

  “I can make a few calls to them as well. So stop looking so morose. As far as police and reporters go, I think you’ll be pretty much left alone.”

  Long ago Chaz had tried to emulate his father’s easy charm in getting people to do what he wanted, but he learned at an early age that he was lousy at it. He got better results by using raw power, and that only worked within the walls of the hospital. Even there he didn’t have his father’s facile ability to succeed as a doctor and reach the inner circles of power. He was a drudge. Hard work and long hours had won him the position of Chief of Cardiology. The one category where he held his own was in physical presence. He, too, was tall and thin; people noticed when he walked into a room.

  Pedro returned with an oversize cup filled with a particularly strong brew. Chaz thanked him, and doctored it with sugar only. To his disgust he saw his hand tremble slightly as he took a sip. “I won’t be left alone if they find out I was the last one to talk with Kelly.”

  St. Paul’s Hospital,

  Buffalo, New York.

  Finally, the presentations were over. At this point Earl usually fired off a few pointed questions to drive home any teaching pearls. Today he felt more like firing off a machine gun. After a few uninspired attempts to come up with some zingers, he called it quits. His audience left, muttering in frustration, and a few of his staff gave him what’s-the-matter-with-you looks.

  All he could think of was, Who? Who had done this to Kelly? Some stranger? Her husband?

  He tried to see patients, but the parade of faces and stories blurred into one another. As for his clinical responses, only the reflexes from twenty-four years’ experience saw him through.