thought I’d heard enough to figure out what was going on. Police investigators wanted access to the late doctors’ patient records, but the hospital lawyers refused. The law protected confidential medical records, the hospital claimed, and the police couldn’t see them without the patients’ written permission. The police were protesting this decision. They were going to ask their in-house attorneys to file an appeal in circuit court. This was a story, if I ever got out of the bathroom.
At last, I heard a chair scrape back and someone try the doorknob. Then more chairs were scraping. The police brass were leaving, and none too soon. I waited long enough for them to pay the bill, then put on my shoes, used the john, and left, flushed with success.
“Hi, Francesca,” said Mayhew, waving me over to his table. “Come join me for breakfast.”
“Sure. I’ll just have coffee, though. I have to get back to the office. I’m not hungry.”
“Since when?” he said, shoveling in a huge forkful of bacon. That man looked good even with his mouth full. He was wearing a navy sport coat with gold buttons and a gold wedding ring. I concentrated on the wedding ring, reminding myself that he had little kids. Marlene poured us both fresh cups and he gulped his down. He asked what I was working on, and I told him about Leo D. Nardo’s disappearance. Unlike Marlene, he didn’t take the missing dancer seriously. “Probably shacked up with some customer,” he said.
“Are you still working on the Moorton Hospital murders?” I asked.
“Yeah. We’ve done a lot of interviews: all the hospital staffers on duty that day, the security people, the victims’ family, friends, former roommates. I’m beat.”
I didn’t have to ask if there were any leads. He sounded too down. “Get anything on the tip hotline?”
“It’s clogged with calls,” he said. “More than three hundred. Most are useless. The killer is their neighbor, their brother-in-law, or someone they saw at the 7-Eleven.”
“Did you find the UPS driver who was running from the scene, the one with the tanned legs and tight buns?”
“How’d you know about him?” He looked surprised.
“I have my sources,” I said. If I told him it was Tina, I’d lose any sense of mystery.
“He turned out to be a real UPS driver,” Mayhew said. “Heard the sirens and ran to get his truck out of a tow-away zone.”
“I wonder how they ID’d him—by his tanned legs or tight buns?”
Mayhew laughed, which meant he wasn’t going to tell me. I waited until he took another bite and then said, “I hear your in-house attorneys are going to go to court so the police can see the confidential patient medical files.”
He stopped chewing. “How the hell did you find that out?” he said. “Marlene doing your work for you again?”
“I hear things,” I said, truthfully. “You think the killer is a disgruntled patient, don’t you?”
“We suspect he
might
be,” Mayhew said, carefully.“And we’re not even sure it’s a he. I’d like to know where this leak is coming from.”
“You know I can’t reveal anything about an ongoing investigation,” I said, just to yank his chain. It worked.
“Francesca,” he said, seriously, “tell me you’re not doing anything on the Moorton Hospital murders.”
“Why not? At this point, the police have about as much information as I do,” I said.
“Don’t even go there,” he said. “You almost got killed and sued last time you investigated a murder.”
“Me? Interfere with a police investigation? Wouldn’t think of it. I’m going to concentrate on the case of the disappearing dancer.”
I was, too. As soon as I wrote the story about the police wanting to examine the patients’ private medical records. I enjoyed calling Major Gideon Davis when I got to the office. He blustered a bit and threatened to fire the person or persons responsible for leaking confidential information to the press. I almost told him
At last, I heard a chair scrape back and someone try the doorknob. Then more chairs were scraping. The police brass were leaving, and none too soon. I waited long enough for them to pay the bill, then put on my shoes, used the john, and left, flushed with success.
“Hi, Francesca,” said Mayhew, waving me over to his table. “Come join me for breakfast.”
“Sure. I’ll just have coffee, though. I have to get back to the office. I’m not hungry.”
“Since when?” he said, shoveling in a huge forkful of bacon. That man looked good even with his mouth full. He was wearing a navy sport coat with gold buttons and a gold wedding ring. I concentrated on the wedding ring, reminding myself that he had little kids. Marlene poured us both fresh cups and he gulped his down. He asked what I was working on, and I told him about Leo D. Nardo’s disappearance. Unlike Marlene, he didn’t take the missing dancer seriously. “Probably shacked up with some customer,” he said.
“Are you still working on the Moorton Hospital murders?” I asked.
“Yeah. We’ve done a lot of interviews: all the hospital staffers on duty that day, the security people, the victims’ family, friends, former roommates. I’m beat.”
I didn’t have to ask if there were any leads. He sounded too down. “Get anything on the tip hotline?”
“It’s clogged with calls,” he said. “More than three hundred. Most are useless. The killer is their neighbor, their brother-in-law, or someone they saw at the 7-Eleven.”
“Did you find the UPS driver who was running from the scene, the one with the tanned legs and tight buns?”
“How’d you know about him?” He looked surprised.
“I have my sources,” I said. If I told him it was Tina, I’d lose any sense of mystery.
“He turned out to be a real UPS driver,” Mayhew said. “Heard the sirens and ran to get his truck out of a tow-away zone.”
“I wonder how they ID’d him—by his tanned legs or tight buns?”
Mayhew laughed, which meant he wasn’t going to tell me. I waited until he took another bite and then said, “I hear your in-house attorneys are going to go to court so the police can see the confidential patient medical files.”
He stopped chewing. “How the hell did you find that out?” he said. “Marlene doing your work for you again?”
“I hear things,” I said, truthfully. “You think the killer is a disgruntled patient, don’t you?”
“We suspect he
might
be,” Mayhew said, carefully.“And we’re not even sure it’s a he. I’d like to know where this leak is coming from.”
“You know I can’t reveal anything about an ongoing investigation,” I said, just to yank his chain. It worked.
“Francesca,” he said, seriously, “tell me you’re not doing anything on the Moorton Hospital murders.”
“Why not? At this point, the police have about as much information as I do,” I said.
“Don’t even go there,” he said. “You almost got killed and sued last time you investigated a murder.”
“Me? Interfere with a police investigation? Wouldn’t think of it. I’m going to concentrate on the case of the disappearing dancer.”
I was, too. As soon as I wrote the story about the police wanting to examine the patients’ private medical records. I enjoyed calling Major Gideon Davis when I got to the office. He blustered a bit and threatened to fire the person or persons responsible for leaking confidential information to the press. I almost told him
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