Denial: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

death, the death of near strangers, every day. We save some, save a lot, but some come too late. The families, the wives, parents, children, must feel what I’m feeling.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “Now I’m one of them and I think about the crap I say to them and know that if someone tries to give me that about losing Kyle … I’m sorry. I’m tired. I haven’t slept in almost three days.”
    “I know a good therapist,” I said.
    “Don’t believe in it,” he said. “You know you’re the first person I’ve discussed Kyle’s death with? Everyone just looks at me sympathetically or tells me how sorry they are, but they don’t talk to me and I don’t want them to. God, I’m rambling.”
    “It’s all right,” I said.
    “I suppose. It doesn’t matter.”
    He put his head in his hands for an instant, sighed deeply, looked up and said, “You want to know why I’m a good radiologist?”
    I nodded.
    “I’ve been through what about half of my patients
have been through. I’ve had prostate cancer. Radiation. Seed implants. I tell them, I’m living proof that you can survive. It’s the survivors of those who don’t make it that I can’t deal with. You know the side effects of radiation and seed implants?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Well, the one on the table now is the inability to produce sperm,” he said. “I can’t have any more children, Mr. Fonesca. I’m forty-two years old and Kyle will be the only child I will ever have.”
    He stared at me, either waiting for a response or seeing through me.
    It should have been clear five minutes earlier, but I was sure now. Dr. Richard McClory was self-prescribing to deal with his pain and it looked as if he might be using more than the minimum recommended dose of whatever it was.
    “Ask your questions, Mr. Fonesca,” he said, leaning back, eyes closed.
    “You were supposed to pick up your son after the movie,” I said.
    “Yes. Kyle and Andrew.”
    “Both?”
    “Yes.”
    “And when they didn’t show up?”
    “I called Kyle’s cell phone.”
    “Cell phone?”
    “Yes,” he said wearily. “There was no answer.”
    “So you … ?”
    “Parked in the lot. Looked around. Went inside the lobby. Went back to the car.”
    “You were worried?”
    “I was, God help me, angry. I blamed Andrew Goines. I thought he had convinced Kyle to forget about me and go off and do something stupid. I was
going to tell Kyle he couldn’t see Andrew again, not when he was staying with me.”
    “And then?”
    “I waited in the car, cell phone on the dashboard. Called Andrew Goines, asked about Kyle. Waited for an hour, gave up and drove home. When the phone rang, I thought it was Kyle with a lame apology asking me to pick him up or telling me he was staying at Andrew’s. It was the police.”
    He opened his mouth and sucked in air. His eyes were red.
    “Did Kyle ever run away, stay out all night, do things that—”
    “Never, nothing. He wasn’t perfect. We weren’t buddies. But we weren’t enemies either. He was straight. No drugs. No drinking. One of the perks of being a physician is you know such things. It also helps when you go through your kid’s drawers and pockets.”
    We sat silently for a few seconds. He looked at his hands. I looked at him.
    “Do what you can,” he finally said without looking up. “If you need more money for, I don’t know, people who might help …”
    “Your ex-wife’s paying me,” I said.
    “If you find out anything,” he said now, looking up, “you let me know.”
    “I will.”
    “Have you ever felt that you could kill someone?” he asked.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “My job is to save lives,” he said. “For the dozens, maybe hundreds I’ve saved, I think I deserve to take one, the life of the person who murdered my son. Well?”
    “I don’t think it’s in you, Doctor,” I said.
    “You don’t know me,” he said with a touch of anger.
    “I could be wrong,” I said.
    There was nothing more to say except