Fire Trap

14 - Cold trail

Dr. Baxter's office was in a multi-level annex to O'Conner Hospital. His waiting room had a lot of plants and one patient, a short, middle-aged black man who looked perfectly sane. I crossed the thick blue carpet to the receptionist. She smiled and told me she'd fit me in before Mr. Williams. I looked back over my shoulder at the resigned frown on Mr. William's face and decided he was used to disappointment. He looked capable of handling my intrusion without a psychotic episode.

Minutes later, Dr. Ezra Baxter appeared like a pompous brown elf and ushered me into his office. He wore a brown V-necked pullover, brown trousers and brown loafers. A bright yellow shirt with a laundry-starched collar set off the V-neck and a cliché salt-and-pepper beard. His balding head shone in the overhead fluorescence. He picked up his pipe and motioned me toward a chair with the stem.

He hadn't said a word, so I imagined he was of the Rogerian School whose non-directive approach often responded to a question with a question. 'I hate my children.' 'So, you hate your children?' 'Yes, I do.' 'You do?' 'Yes.' 'Yes?'

I was curious to test my theory and said nothing.

He relaxed and smoked his pipe for a few minutes. I guess he realized I wasn't a paying customer whose pocketbook would soon force conversation.

"What can I do for you?" he said. "I have a patient waiting."

"Simon Gallagher was your patient until recently?"

"Yes, but I can't discuss his case with you."

"I represent the Western Insurance Group. I'm investigating his death in the Genetrix fire."

"I'm sure you are, but even a deceased patient's history is confidential," he said, withdrawing his pipe so that he could give me the full benefit of his serious countenance at the righteous execution of his duty.

I presented him another of the signed medical releases. After a brief look, he returned it. "Sorry," he said, seeming to take satisfaction in denying me, "but Simon's sessions with me will remain confidential."

I struggled to control my temper and succeeded. "I only have a few questions, but if I can't get your cooperation with this signed release, I will have to get a subpoena. Of course, in that case I won't be able to question you in your office, but will require you to appear in court. I think several mornings away from your practice will be sufficient to get the information I need. That won't cause you much inconvenience will it?" I watched his righteous countenance struggle with his pocketbook. The conflict was brief.

"I didn't realize it was only a few questions. I won't support a fishing expedition."

I was merciful in victory. "What dosage of Elavil was Simon taking at the time of his death?" I knew the answer, but I wanted to start him on firm territory.

"One hundred milligrams a day. He had been on that amount for years. Fifty or one hundred are the normal maintenance doses."

"What color would those tablets be?"

"The fifties are blue and the hundreds pink."

"Hmmm. Had he expressed any anxiety or depression about his work?"

"No. His work was a source of strength for him."

I asked about alcohol and amitriptyline and he delivered a lecture about 'potentiating', how alcohol could multiply the effects of amitriptyline in a deadly manner. Patients are warned about consumption of alcohol in general and specifically about combined consumption. Simon, being a scientist, was particularly aware of the danger. He was visibly surprised when I told him the results of the second autopsy.