Brainwaves, page 11
part #8 of Joanna Blalock Series
“David Doyle,” he said, extending his hand.
Murdock shook it, then pointed to a high-back leather chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Doyle.”
“No problem.” Doyle sat down heavily, keeping his hands on the leather briefcase in his lap. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”
“I was told it was urgent.”
“It is,” Doyle said gravely. He opened his briefcase and began rummaging through it. “Are you aware that Dr. Karen Crandell had a research grant from
NASA?”
“Are you referring to the one that deals with the effects of space travel on memory?” Murdock asked.
Doyle’s puffy eyes narrowed. “What do you know about that study?”
“Only its title.”
“It sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it?”
Murdock nodded. “Innocent, but interesting.”
“It’s more than that,” Doyle said darkly. “Much, much more.”
“How so?”
Doyle gave Murdock a long look. “Everything I’m about to tell you must remain confidential.”
“It’ll stay in this room,” Murdock said.
“If it doesn’t, Memorial will never see another grant from NASA,” Doyle cautioned.
“It will stay in this room,” Murdock promised.
“The title of the research grant makes it sound as if we’re studying the astronauts to see if space travel affects their memory, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“Well, that’s not the case,” Doyle told him. “Some of our astronauts who have stayed in space for prolonged periods have developed short-term memory problems. For obvious reasons, we need to find out why, if it will last, and if it will progress.”
“Are we talking about serious memory loss?” Murdock asked.
“It’s noticeable, but it hasn’t interfered with their daily lives,” Doyle answered, then added ominously, “at least, not so far.”
“It sounds like early Alzheimer’s.”
“We don’t like to use that word.”
“Jesus,” Murdock hissed under his breath, rocking back in his swivel chair.
“Anyhow,” Doyle continued, “Dr. Crandell’s role in the project was to study the affected astronauts and review all the tests we’d done on them. That included CAT scans, PET scans, MRIs, and EEGs, and everything else under the sun. She was even flown to
Bethesda to personally examine some of the astronauts.”
“All with negative findings, I take it?”
“Until a week ago when she called my office and left a message telling me she’d uncovered something very important.” Doyle ran a hand through his hair and didn’t bother to pat it back in place. “She told my secretary that the report was being typed and would be in the mail within twenty-four hours.”
Murdock leaned forward. “What did the report say?”
“It never arrived,” Doyle said. “That’s why I’m here. I need that report. And maybe some astronauts will need it, too.”
“You, of course, know that Karen Crandell is dead.”
“That’s why I’m here talking with you. I need your help to track down that report.” Doyle closed his briefcase and locked it. “Where do you think it might be?”
Murdock tapped a finger against his chin, trying to come up with a solution. There were at least three possibilities. “The report could have been lost in the mail.”
“Unlikely,” Doyle said at once. “All of our correspondence is sent via certified mail.”
“A second possibility is that the typing was delayed for some reason,” Murdock thought aloud.
“For four days?”
“Not very likely,” Murdock had to agree, thinking through the problem once more. “Then my best guess is that the report was typed but never left Memorial.”
“Is there any way to check that out?”
Murdock reached for the phone and called the office of the BRI’s director. He spoke to the secretary
and learned that all the typing for the BRI was done by a steno pool at Memorial. Next he phoned the head of the steno pool, who checked their records. In the past week the pool had typed two things for Karen Crandell. The first was a letter to a professor at Harvard accepting an invitation to give a lecture on her clot-dissolving catheter. The second was a consultation report on a pediatric patient.
Murdock put the phone down, saying, “No luck.”
“But Dr. Crandell said the letter was being typed,” Doyle persisted.
“Perhaps it was typed by another service,” Murdock suggested. “Some of our staff use outside typing services.”
“If that’s so, the letter could be sitting on her desk,” Doyle said. “Could we take a look in there?”
Murdock shook his head. “That’s considered a crime scene. The entire area is taped off and guarded.”
“Is there any way around it?”
“No.”
Doyle sighed wearily. “That’s a shame, because now we’ll have to transfer this grant to another institution and begin again.”
“I wish I could help.”
“I do, too,” Doyle said, getting up from his chair. “It’s really too bad Karen Crandell is dead. If she had lived and her findings were truly important, she’d have gotten more grant money than she could have ever imagined.”
“How do you mean?” Murdock asked, his ears suddenly pricked.
“Had she found something significant, we would have shifted a considerable amount of money to her
project,” Doyle explained. “She would have been the only investigator to date who had given us something important to look at.”
“How much of an increase are you talking about?”
“We would have doubled the size of her grant to two million over five years.”
Murdock swallowed audibly, thinking that would have meant a million dollars coming into Memorial’s coffers just to administer the grant. A million dollars for so little work. It was like found money.
“Let’s say we were able to get a look at Karen Crandell’s report, and let’s say the findings were important. Is there any way her research grant could stay at Memorial?”
“That would be difficult,” Doyle said. “Very difficult.”
“Too bad.”
“But not impossible,” Doyle went on, seeing Murdock’s interest. “Of course, the grant would have to be resubmitted with the new findings. And the researcher would have to be a memory expert.”
“And that researcher could come from the BRI. Correct?”
“Oh, I think that might well be the first place we’d look.”
Murdock nodded and Doyle nodded back. They had a tacit agreement.
“Let’s walk over to Karen’s office,” Murdock said, moving out from behind his desk.
They quickly left the office and hurried down the corridor to a waiting elevator. Murdock pushed the button for the main lobby. He turned to David Doyle and was about to ask a question, but a surgery resident jumped into the elevator just before the doors closed.
Murdock stared up at the floor indicator, wondering how he was going to get into Karen Crandell’s office. That part of the BRI was taped off and guarded twenty-four hours a day by a uniformed policeman. Nobody was going to get in. Nobody.
Murdock remembered three years back when a patient at Memorial was killed by a terrorist. Even Murdock couldn’t get into the room without being escorted by Joanna Blalock. Murdock’s eyes brightened for a moment. Yes! Joanna. She could get them into Karen’s office. But that wouldn’t work either, Murdock decided, because Joanna would learn about the NASA study. She would discuss it with Lieutenant Sinclair and all confidentiality would be lost. And that would end Memorial’s chances of ever getting another grant from NASA.
The elevator doors opened and they stepped out into a crowded lobby.
“Which way?” Doyle asked.
“To the right,” Murdock said, guiding Doyle past the information booth. A heavyset woman bumped into Doyle, and Murdock noticed how tightly Doyle clutched his briefcase to his chest. Murdock also noticed the briefcase’s double locks.
“Are you a physician, Dr. Doyle?”
“My doctorate is in neuro physiology Doyle said curtly.
“And I would guess your specialty is the memory mechanism.”
“You guessed wrong,” Doyle said, his face closed. The conversation was over.
They walked across the glass-enclosed bridge and into the Neuropsychiatric Institute. While they waited for the elevator, Murdock again tried to think of ways
to get past the policeman guarding Karen Crandell’s office. There was only one entrance, with no back or side doors. And there were no connecting laboratories either. Just one way in, and that was guarded.
They took the elevator up and stepped out into a deserted corridor, then headed for the taped-off crime scene area. As they approached Karen Crandell’s office, a tall, broad-shouldered policeman held up his hand, palm out. “Sorry, gentlemen,” he said in a bass voice. “You can’t enter this area.”
“Do you know who I am?” Murdock asked authoritatively.
“Yes, sir,” the policeman said. “You’re Dr. Murdock.”
“And you are?”
“Officer Murphy, sir.”
“Good,” Murdock said. “Now, it’s very important, Officer Murphy, that we take a quick look at Dr. Crandell’s files. I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s of vital importance.”
“Sorry,” Murphy said again. “No civilians can enter the crime scene until the yellow tape comes down.”
“Surely there are exceptions.”
Murphy shook his head firmly. “Nobody gets in except for the technician.”
Murdock looked past the policeman and saw the technician working at a small desk. He smiled to himself. “Perhaps we could talk with the technician and solve our problem that way.”
Murphy hesitated, thinking he hadn’t been given any orders to stop the technician from talking to civilians. He furrowed his brow, trying to decide what to do.
“It’s vitally important,” Murdock urged.
Murphy turned and signaled to the technician. “Miss, some doctors would like to talk with you.”
Ann Novack came to the entrance, staying behind the crime-scene tape.
“Good morning, Miss Novack,” Murdock said pleasantly.
“Good morning, sir,” Ann said, recognizing Murdock, but not the other man, whose coat was so wrinkled she wondered if he’d slept in it.
“I’m going to ask you to do us a favor,” Murdock said.
“Sure,” Ann said, liking Simon Murdock. He reminded her of the way doctors used to be. “But I can’t take anything out of the lab.”
Murdock nodded. “I understand that. All I’m going to ask is for you to look in Dr. Crandell’s files and see if there’s a letter to Dr. David Doyle.” He gestured to the scientist by his side, saying, “This is Dr. Doyle, by the way. He’s from the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.”
Doyle took out his ID and showed it to the technician and to the policeman. “The correspondence may also be listed under the title NASA or NASA Research Program,” he told her.
Ann hesitated, then said, “I can tell you right now there’s nothing in her file cabinet. No letters or grants or anything else. The only things in there are old catalogs.”
“You’ve looked?” Murdock asked, taken aback.
Ann nodded. “And so have the police. There’s nothing there.”
“Where did she keep all of her records and letters?”
Ann shrugged. “You got me.”
“Could you please recheck the file cabinet?” Murdock asked. “And also look on her desk for that letter to Dr. Doyle.”
Murphy wasn’t sure he should allow the technician to rummage through the victim’s desk. He considered calling the station for instructions. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” he finally said.
“Good God!” Murdock blurted out, losing patience. “All we want to do is see if the letter is on her desk.”
“I’ll do a quick check,” Ann said, making up the policeman’s mind for him.
From behind the tape Murdock watched the technician enter Karen Crandell’s office. She rapidly opened and closed all the drawers in the file cabinet, apparently finding nothing. Then she moved to Karen’s desk and carefully sorted through papers and folders.
“Nothing leaves that office,” Murphy reminded them.
“I know,” Murdock said, unconcerned. All he cared about was whether the letter or report was in Karen’s office. Because if it was, they’d eventually be able to retrieve it. The crime-scene tape wouldn’t stay up forever.
“I think I’ve found something,” Ann called out.
Instinctively, Murphy turned and hurried into the office, thinking that the technician might have discovered a clue to solving the murder case. He didn’t notice Murdock and Doyle as they ducked under the tape and followed him inside.
Ann was holding up a legal pad. It was blank except for the handwriting on the top line. It read nasa report with a large asterisk on each side.
“Where’s the letter?” Murdock demanded.
“This is all I found,” Ann replied. “It’s got the word NASA on it, so I thought it might be important.”
“All right, all right!” Murphy yelled angrily, staring at the men. “I want you two out of here pronto. Goddamn it!”
“While we’re here, we may as well take a quick look,” Murdock said, and hurriedly went through the papers on the desk.
Murphy grabbed Murdock’s shoulder with a tight squeeze. “You want me to throw your ass out of here?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Murdock said, taking a final glance at the papers on the desk as he was hustled out.
David Doyle was standing by the machines off to the side of the office. He was holding up his large briefcase, blocking the view of the others in the room. But Ann was now by the door and she could see Doyle reaching behind one of the machines. It almost seemed as if he was searching for something by feel.
“You too!” Murphy yelled out to Doyle. “Move your ass out of here!”
Doyle walked out of the office quickly. He had his briefcase in one hand. His other hand was closed, as if it was holding a small object.
10
Edith Epps, the manager of the Oceanside Condominiums, led the two detectives to the door of Karen Crandell’s apartment. She reached for a master key, then put on her reading glasses so she could find the keyhole.
“Why would somebody kill Dr. Crandell?” she asked. “Why murder a doctor who’s doing such wonderful research?”
“There are a lot of bad people out there,” Sergeant Lou Farelli said.
“But why did they have to kill her, Sergeant Furillo?”
“Sergeant Farelli,” he corrected her. “And we don’t know why. We’re looking into it.”
Yeah, Jake wanted to add, and finding nothing. “Did you know Dr. Crandell?”
“Only in passing,” Edith said. “She usually left before I arrived in the morning and, as you might expect, didn’t return until late in the evening.”
“Did you hear any gossip or rumors about her?” Jake asked.
Edith hesitated briefly, then lowered her voice. “I was told she dated men a lot younger than she was.”
“How much younger?”
“About half her age.” Edith opened the door and stepped aside. “Does your warrant say I have to remain here during your search?”
“No, ma’am,” Jake said. “You can go about your business. We’ll let you know when we’re done.”
The detectives entered the condominium, closing the door behind them.
Jake took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply. “What do you make of Karen Crandell dating younger guys?”
“When I see a middleaged broad with a young stud, I think escort service,” Farelli answered.
“Check it out,” Jake said. “Talk with the night guards. They’ll have the best eyes for that sort of thing.”
They walked across a foyer with a white marble floor that led into a spacious living room. The plush carpet was light beige, the walls lined with futuristic art. All of the furniture was leather and chrome, and it looked custom-made. The far wall consisted of sliding glass doors, and beyond that there was a balcony that overlooked the blue Pacific.
“What do you figure this costs?” Farelli asked.
“At least six hundred thousand,” Jake replied.
Farelli whistled softly. “Six hundred large for a damn apartment.”
They stepped over to a large wet bar and glanced at the bottles. Most of them contained liqueurs and wines. And most of the bottles were still full.
“Social drinker,” Jake commented.
“If that,” Farelli said and began coughing as a whiff of smoke from Jake’s cigarette passed in front of him.
Jake quickly extinguished his cigarette in a porcelain ashtray. “Sorry about that. I forgot about your bronchitis.”
“Shit! It just won’t stop,” Farelli said, and went through another paroxysm of coughing, the phlegm rattling around in his throat. Finally he hurried behind the bar and sipped water from a faucet.
Jake waited for the coughing spell to stop, wondering if Farelli had come back to work too soon. Jake still didn’t like the way his partner’s complexion looked. Farelli was a short, stocky man, heavily bearded, with a quick smile. Normally his face had an almost rosy appearance to it. Now it seemed pale and drawn. But Farelli at half-strength was smarter than most cops at their best. And he was tough as nails. In a fight he was the man you wanted by your side.
Farelli coughed once more and cleared his throat. “Let’s do it.”
They walked into a large kitchen. Everything was neat and clean with no glasses or dishes in the sink. The refrigerator was loaded with expensive gourmet foods, along with large bottles of water imported from France. A calendar on the wall showed the dates and times for hair and manicure appointments. The day of her murder was blank.
Next they searched the marbled bathroom. There was a sunken circular bathtub, with a separate, glass enclosed shower. The toilet was unique in that there was a bluebird painted on the bottom of the bowl.
