“You feel fine, so why should you-”

“It just doesn’t feel right, know what I mean? I come into this shithole all okay and they poke me and jam crap in me and give me X rays and CAT scans and all kinds of crap and now tomorrow I’m gonna wake up feeling like I got run over by a truck. It doesn’t make sense, but try telling Mom that. She’s only out for my best interests.”

“Your mother-”

“My mother loves doctors,” said Merilee. “Especially the cute ones. She thinks Dirgrove’s cute. I don’t. I think he’s a stiff. And since you’re obviously going to ask about my dad, let’s just say he works like eight hundred hours a week, pays the bills, goes with the flow.”

“You’re right,” said Jeremy. “You’re an adult, and it’s your body we’re talking about. So if you have serious reservations-”

“Nah. I’ll go with the flow, too. Why not? What’s the worse that can happen, I die?” She laughed.

Jeremy started to speak, but she waved him off. “Don’t think I’m gonna talk shrinky, to hell with that. Even if I am nuts, so what? It’s not my brain we’re talking about, it’s my heart.”

“Sometimes there are things we can do to make the experience easier,” he said. “Relaxation exercises.”

“I hate exercise.”

“This is more like meditation- hypnosis.”

She regarded Jeremy through slitted eyes. “What, you want to put me asleep and tell me my heart’s okay and the hole closed up by itself? If you can pull that off, sure, let’s party.”

“Sorry,” said Jeremy. “That’s a bit beyond my abilities.”

“Then who the hell needs you?” said Merilee Saunders, shaking her fingers as if discarding flecks of filth. “Leave me alone, I’m tired.”

Pt. More angry than anx. Understands need for surgery intellec.

but not emot. More discussion of procedure from Dr. Dirgrove

recommended. Pt. Refuses relax.trng. J. Carrier, Ph.D.

Not one of his triumphs.

But later that day, he picked up his voice-mail messages and the third of a dozen said: “Jeremy, this is Ted Dirgrove. You were a great help. Thanks.”

22

Another envelope arrived in the interoffice mail. Same source: Otolaryngology. Once again, an unnamed recipient, but it had ended up in Jeremy’s stack.

This one was copied from a five-year-old gynecology journal. Laser hysterectomy technique in the treatment of uterine lieomyomata, endometriosis, and pelvic adhesive inflammation.

Optimally, the patient should be positioned in the dorsal lithotomy posture with low stirrups, prepped and draped…

Another team of authors, physicians, and biomedical engineers. Americans, working at a West Coast university hospital.

Construction of a bladder flap… endoscopic kittner… dissection of the broad ligaments.

Jeremy slipped the article back in the envelope, walked over to the Psychiatry Department, and asked Laura, the secretary who disbursed the mail if she had any idea who had delivered the envelope.

“It all comes in a batch from the mail room, Dr. Carrier.” Laura was barely twenty, just out of junior college. Still sufficiently green to hold the professional staff in awe.

“This wasn’t addressed to me.” He showed her. “So it had to be dropped off in person. Any idea how it got in my pile?”

“Uh-uh. Sorry.”

“When the batch gets here, where’s it stored?”

“Right here.” She pointed to a bin on the counter, just to her left. “I go through it, divide it by staff member, and tie up each stack with a rubber band and a Post-it with your name on it. Then someone- me or a clerk or a volunteer- brings it around to each office. Yours we do last because you’re on a different floor.”

“So once the batch is divided, anyone could insert another envelope into any pile.”

“I guess so- is something wrong, Dr. Carrier?”

“No, just curious.”

“Oh,” she said, looking frightened. “Have a nice day.”

He barged in on the ENT receptionist. A young man, beautifully dressed and groomed, whose fingers flew over a computer keyboard.

“May I help you?” he said, without looking up. Same voice Jeremy had spoken to when he’d inquired about the first envelope.

Jeremy said, “I have a question about this.”

The young man stopped typing, and Jeremy handed him the envelope.

“Didn’t you call me about this before?”

“That was the first, this is the second. So I don’t think it’s an accident. I’ve obviously been confused with someone else.”

The young man inspected the photocopied article. “Hmm… well, I didn’t send it. These envelopes get reused all the time.”

“I guess someone’s stockpiling ENT envelopes.”

The young man grinned. “That’s because we’re so charming.” He tried to hand the article back.

“All yours,” said Jeremy.

The young man touched his hair. “First time anyone’s given me anything in a long, long time, but no thanks.”

He placed the article on the counter. Jeremy took it.

Now he wondered.

Dissection of the broad ligaments.

Jeremy returned to his office and called Detective Bob Doresh. This time he introduced himself. He heard Doresh sigh.

“Yes, Doc?”

“Last time we spoke you called Tyrene Mazursky a Humpty-Dumpty situation and implied Jocelyn had been the same-”

“I never implied, Doc, I was-”

“Fine, Detective, let’s not quibble. I’ve got a question for you. Did the murders bear any signs of surgical skill? Was there any dissection?”

Doresh didn’t answer.

“Detective-”

“I heard you, Doc. Now, why would you be asking that?”

“An egg,” Jeremy lied. “It breaks in clean pieces. Straight edges, there’s a certain precision to the destruction. Is that what you meant when you used the term ‘Humpty-Dumpty,’ or were you speaking in general terms?”

“Doc, I don’t think I’m going to get into what I meant.” Doresh’s voice had grown soft and threatening.

Nervous, Jeremy had definitely made him nervous. As far as he was concerned, that was answer enough. “All right, then. Sorry for bothering you.”

“No bother,” said Doresh. “We always like to hear from concerned citizens. Which is how you see yourself, right?”

“No, Detective. I’m more than that. I loved Jocelyn.”

“So you told me when we first met.”

“Did I?” Jeremy harbored only fuzzy memories of the initial encounter at the station. Small room, big men, bright lights, everything moving at a methedrine pace.

“Sure,” said Doresh. “In fact it was the first thing you said. ‘I love her.’ ”

“Okay,” said Jeremy.

“I thought that was interesting. That that’s the first thing you’d say.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s just not something I’ve heard before. In that situation.”

“There you go,” said Jeremy. “New experiences every day.”

“Like a person with Alzheimer’s,” said Doresh. “That’s the good part of the disease, right- you get to meet new people every day.”

Several moments passed.

Doresh said, “You’re not laughing.”

“Tell me something funny, and I will.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Doc. Tasteless. We tend to get that way- dealing with the so-called dark side of life. To alleviate the stress, I’m sure you understand.”

“I do,” said Jeremy. “Thanks for your-”

“Ms. Banks,” said Doresh. “She worked with Alzheimer’s patients. All kinds of patients with… whadyacallit- cognitive problems?”

“That’s right.”

“I hear some folks at the hospital make jokes about that. Call it ‘the vegetable garden.’ Sounds like you guys aren’t that different than us. People need to cope.”

“They do-”

“How’re you coping, Doc? You doing okay, otherwise?”

“Otherwise?”

“Other than wondering about the evidence.”

“Oh, sure,” said Jeremy. “Life’s a blast.”