No Good Deed

ONE

Almost every morning when I walked out of my apartment house on East Fifty-first and turned left toward Third Avenue there was a man sleeping up against the building wall; a young man half covered by the dirty blanket he was lying on. Or he might be awake, sitting up, hunched over, preoccupied with whatever it was he thought about. Sometimes he fixed me with startlingly penetrating eyes. Nothing unusual about any of this except that the young man had curly dark sideburns, thick glasses he never seemed to take off, a shiny, baggy black suit (likewise) and a yarmulke. My lover Eve, a fugitive in her teens from Hasidic Brooklyn, informed me the sideburns are called payess. She agreed with me it was strange to see such a person—Orthodox Jews being a famously tight-knit community—making his home on the street.

Each time I saw him my sympathy and curiosity were aroused, and each time I would pass him by without stopping. Occasionally Eve would spend the night at my place, and the first morning she set eyes on the poor guy (we were leaving for work together) she stopped, took a fiver out of her bag and tucked it into the crook of his arm. That was one of the days he was still asleep.

You shouldn’t have done that, I told her. Now he’ll never go away—assuming someone doesn’t steal it before he wakes up.

I pushed it down where it won’t show. Anyway, you’ll lose him when it turns cold.

That may not be for another couple of months. It isn’t that I wouldn’t like to give him something, I justified myself, but I don’t want him expecting a handout every time he sees me.

"Well, he didn’t see anybody this time, so you’re in the clear."

But he’ll still think it’s a good spot for picking up money, I grumbled.

Why am I starting off like this? My story is about something else … something that began a few weeks later, in October, on a morning after I’d got well past my conscience-nagger on the sidewalk. I was—here’s where the story opens—going through the mail in my office when my secretary, Altagracia Rosario, announced that Dr. Stokes was on the phone.

I picked up and said good morning.

Bert, can you spare me a few minutes?

Now?

If you can make it.

I’ll be right over.

T. Graydon Stokes, M.D., is Director of Westside General Hospital, sister institution to the Krinsky Research Center where I’m Director of Media Relations. I’ve been in his special good graces since a year ago when I bumbled my way into solving the murders of two Krinsky scientists, Frawley and Dixon. Since hospital and research center are separate entities, his path and mine don’t cross very often. I wondered, as I made my way from Krinsky through the street-level corridor to the adjoining building, why Stokes wanted to see me.

How about some coffee? he greeted me as I walked into his office, maybe ten times the size of mine and handsomely furnished. He transferred a cup and saucer he was holding from his right to left hand so we could shake.

That’d be fine.

Have a seat. He nodded toward two club chairs and I chose one as he moved to the door and told his secretary Coffee for Mr. Swain, please. I heard her ask, Cream and sugar? Just black, I called.

Stokes came back and sat in the other chair, setting his coffee down on a small table between us. He was a slim, elegant, grayhaired man who looked the way a diplomat is supposed to look—and if he does, you distrust him. He also commanded a diplomatic aplomb that I’d had seen in action, especially at a public meeting where he’d defended Westside Medical Center’s plans for a $100-million expansion program against hostile neighborhood residents. (Westside Medical Center includes the hospital, Krinsky and Manhattan Medical College, for which Westside General is the teaching hospital. The construction was now under way in spite of the noisy opposition.)

Waiting for my coffee, Stokes made small talk. How had I been? He’d seen a story in the Times that I must have had something to do with—a report on a new treatment being tested at Krinsky for Hansen’s disease. I acknowledged I’d placed the story. He said I ought to be pleased with the coverage Krinsky had been getting; it showed I was on my toes. I felt flattered, which obviously was how he wanted me to feel, because after the coffee came and he’d instructed his secretary to shut the door behind her, he said he had a favor to ask.

As you probably know, he began, the police don’t seem to be getting anywhere with the Jarrell case.

I nodded. I’d pretty much stopped thinking about it for exactly that reason. Donald Jarrell, a trial lawyer aged thirty-eight, had been a patient in Westside General, recovering from injuries of the head and upper body, when he was found dead in bed in the middle of the night—poisoned. Checking into the hospital, he had given a patently phony explanation of how the injuries had been incurred: a fall down some stairs—location unspecified. As for the poison that had killed him, post-mortem chemical analysis indicated it was an organic phosphate, some kind of cholinesterase inhibitor; but precisely which one, and how it had been obtained and ingested, remained a mystery.

Naturally, the press, radio and television had had a field day with this juicy affair. Murder? Suicide? In—of all places—a hospital, where patients were supposed to be under constant supervision. It certainly didn’t make Westside General look good.

I was beginning to get the picture: I’d cracked Frawley-Dixon, ergo I was the man to tackle Jarrell.

Stokes’s next words confirmed my reading: It’s the consensus among our staff and board of governors that we probably have nothing to look forward to from the police. Jarrell’s death is a black mark against us—a mark we’re going to have to erase ourselves. Or at least make a damn good try. You did such a superb job last time … we need your help again.

Hardly an invitation to gladden my soul on an autumn morning crisp with promise. Assembling the pieces of that first puzzle had taxed my poor brain to the limit. It had taken time away from the public relations duties I’d been hired for. And it had been dangerous. I’d damn near got myself killed.

Setting aside for the moment the question of superb job (luck and dumb persistence had had a lot to do with my success), I really didn’t feel like playing detective again. Even more than having to neglect my P.R. responsibilities, which I’d still be held accountable for, I didn’t relish the possibility of being eliminated if someone thought my sleuthing was cutting too close to the bone.

I’m flattered you people think I could erase the mark. I’m not at all sure I can. And there’s another thing: my job. Krinsky still pays my salary but you’re asking me to work for Westside General.

No problem, said Stokes. I’ve already spoken to Dr. Cromart and he’ll lend you, part time. Cromart was my boss, Krinsky’s director.

Deflated, I had to admit that Cromart probably did have the right to decide how to use me. And he’s always sucking up to Stokes, I reminded myself. Stokes’s M.D. is bigger than his Ph.D. If I say no, he’s going to feel let down and I’ll suffer his displeasure in one way or another.

Besides, I reasoned (why was I so quick to see the other guy’s point of view?), Jarrell’s death shouldn’t be allowed to go unsolved. Murder in a hospital is like murder in a church—it undercuts the foundations of what little civilization we have left. If he was murdered, the murderer must pay.

And, let’s face it, I was intrigued by the mystery. Now that I’d been offered the chance to work on it, I found I really wanted to know what happened.

Bertram Swain, pushover.

I’ll give it a try, I said.

TWO

Eve had asked me to dinner that night and I wondered what her reaction would be to my taking on the Jarrell headache. To some extent it would be her headache too. She’d held my hand and made some smart suggestions while I was struggling with the Frawley and Dixon murders, but there were times I’d been so caught up in the chase that I’d had to neglect her along with my P.R. chores. She hadn’t liked that.

I should explain our relationship. I’m a divorced man, forty-eight, with a going-on-thirteen-year-old daughter who lives with her mother in Toronto. Eve is a widow with a son in his senior year at the University of Wisconsin. She works where I do—at the Krinsky Research Center, as comptroller. We met when I was fairly new there, just getting going as a pseudo-sleuth and turning to the comptroller’s office for information I hoped might lead to a clue or two.

Our setup is convenient: apartments within walking distance of each other. The fact that I’d been invited to Eve’s meant she really wanted to see me. That was one of the nice things about our no-strings arrangement. As usual, we’d left our offices at our own times and I’d gone home to freshen up, pour myself an Irish on the rocks and flip through the mail, giving Eve a chance to get ready for the evening in her own way. Around seven I arrived at her apartment in Tudor City with a bottle.

We kissed. I handed her the wine. She handed me the Bushmills on the rocks she knew I was ready for, picked up the Finlandia on the rocks she’d set aside on a credenza near the door. Her regular drink.

Leaving the wine on the credenza, we moved to the sofa where I put my arm around her as we sank down and she turned her face to be kissed again.

I didn’t relish breaking the news about the Jarrell assignment, but thought I might as well get it over with.

Stokes asked me to come see him this morning.

She knew that wasn’t an everyday thing. What about?

He had an idea … he and the docs and governors. About the Jarrell mess.

What about it?

He wants me to work on it.

Good!

I looked at her in surprise. I thought you’d say ‘No way!’

Why? Just because I got mean and nasty last time when you were breaking dates and telling me to get lost?

I never said—

You might as well have—sometimes you were a million miles away.

"I was the one who was getting lost." No wonder I was fond of this woman: she kept me off balance.

You could do with a little change of pace. You’ve got your job under control, there’s no challenge. And maybe I could help.

You certainly helped last time. You saved my life!

Well, don’t count on that happening again. Do you start right away?

As soon as I finish writing Dr. Langer’s speech for a conference next week. And a news release. Probably get going Thursday. Today was Tuesday.

The timer went off in the kitchen. Eve patted my knee, stood. Dinner in fifteen minutes?

Want me to open the wine?

No, there’s a white already open—in the fridge.

I watched her retreating figure with pleasure. Compactly built, not tall, certainly not fat but full-fleshed like a ripe plum. She had dark hair, lively brown eyes and a brisk manner. You always knew where you stood with Eve, and whatever she told you was true. I regularly congratulated myself on having grown up enough, at last, to appreciate someone like her.

I looked around the room I was sitting in and luxuriated in its inviting comfort. The furniture, of no particular period, was somewhat worn but of good design. An upholstered easy chair with matching ottoman, favored by her late husband, had become my chair of choice. Framing mullioned windows were a pair of avocado plants, started from pits, that almost grazed the ceiling. There were books around, a fireplace before which we’d often warmed ourselves last winter.

Out of sight at the moment, up against a wall in the foyer, was a purple Bianchi bike. Eve belonged to a cycling club, the Pedal Pushers, and when she set off for work in the morning—if it was from her apartment, not mine—she generally traveled by Bianchi. I took a bus.

As I sipped my whiskey, awaiting the summons to dinner, I tried to figure how to go about addressing the puzzle of Donald Jarrell. Where to begin? First of all, I’d have to find out how much had been learned by the police. They must have collected a certain amount of information, even if they couldn’t make it add up.

No, first of all I should reread Jarrell’s obits that I’d seen in the Times, the News and elsewhere a month or so ago. Tomorrow I’d steal a few minutes from Dr. Langer’s speech to look at the scrapbook Altagracia kept of everything in print about Westside Medical Center. Then, when I went to the police, I’d be a little better prepared than I was now.

Before or after that I’d probably want to interview all staff personnel who’d had anything to do with Jarrell as a patient; also members of his family, people he worked with, friends, anyone who had visited him in Westside General.

I was about to throw a stone into a pond, stirring ripples. There was no way of knowing how far the circles must extend before they might touch someone or something implicated in Jarrell’s death. I would have to be watchful, ready to recognize the moment of revelation—if it ever came.

Eve appeared around the kitchen doorway. She was wearing an apron but didn’t look dowdy. Au contraire. Chow.

THREE

Actually, none of the newspaper accounts of Jarrell’s death was an ordinary obit. The mystery surrounding it earned it a place in the news columns. The Times report ran:

Death in Hospital

Termed Suspicious

Donald Jarrell, 38, a trial lawyer, was found dead in the early morning hours Tuesday in Westside General Hospital under circumstances described by police as suspicious. Mr. Jarrell had been admitted as a patient four days earlier with injuries of the head and upper body which he attributed to a fall, according to his physician, Dr. Emery Knowland. Dr. Knowland said recovery had been progressing satisfactorily and that there were indications that death had been sudden and violent, with poison a possible cause. The police indicate there are no known suspects at present.

Mr. Jarrell was a junior partner in the firm of Weinstock, Harmon, Englehart & Clemmons. As a preschooler in the Brevoort County town of Drummond he set in motion a sensational court case in which a group of parents charged the personnel of a day-care center with sexually abusing their charges. His younger sister and other children provided testimony that contributed to sending two center operators and an aide to prison.

Survivors include Mr. Jarrell’s mother and stepfather, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick R. Jarrell, of Winston, Conn.; his wife, Joanna, and children, Samantha and Todd, of Manhattan, and sister, Dr. Fay Carter, of White Plains.

It all came back to me as I read it again after almost two months. I’d forgotten about the sexual abuse—maybe because so many instances of it are reported these days. Reminded, I found myself wondering if this kind of activity was more prevalent now than it used to be or was it just getting more media attention?

Human nature being what it is, I suspected there was just as much hanky-panky going on thirty years ago even if we didn’t hear so much about it.

The other scrapbook stories about Jarrell’s death—from the Daily News, New York Post and USA Today—were lurid and highly speculative. Each sheet carried subsequent reports. The News added color to one followup piece by noting that a few years ago Englehart of Weinstock, Harmon, etc. had successfully defended the owner of a dry-cleaning chain against a charge of eliminating competitors by use of Mafia muscle. No connection with the Jarrell case was adduced. More to the point, the police were said to be questioning hospital staff and employees and interviewing members of the deceased’s family. The funeral was announced, took place. The medical examiner’s office confirmed that traces of poison had been detected in body tissues.

Closing the book, I straightened up at my desk, my natural tendency being to slouch. (Eve didn’t criticize out loud—maybe she didn’t feel critical—but her posture was a reproach to mine.) While the earliest I could start work on Jarrell would be tomorrow, I decided to try to set up my first appointment now. That should be with Jerry Joyce, the police detective attached to Westside Medical Center’s precinct, whom I’d met when he questioned me in connection with Dr. Dixon’s death. My hope was to trade on this fleeting contact to get a look at the DD5 on Jarrell—the complaint followup that would be on file at the station. I knew from my days as a reporter on the New York Record that the police were not required to make this available to outsiders.

I had Altagracia call the precinct. Sergeant Joyce was not in; she left my name and number.

Eve and I weren’t on for tonight, and it occurred to me to check whether Hazel was free for dinner. Hazel Claflin was an old Record buddy. After that paper folded, we’d gone our separate ways, me winding up as star reporter on the leading purveyor of tripe among supermarket tabloids. She’d rescued me from Inside Story’s golden clutches by recommending me for the respectable post I now held. As Westside General’s development director Hazel had had a lot to do with the success of the medical center’s building fund program. In solid with top management, she probably already knew they’d given me the assignment of looking into Jarrell’s death. On the chance she didn’t, I should certainly let her hear about it from me.

She was free, and ready on the phone with a suggestion where to dine: Zen Delight, a new spot in the East Sixties. I hear they serve a mean tofu.

I didn’t mind being virtuous as long as it tasted like food. We agreed to meet