LITMIR.BIZ

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He sighed. ‘But I do know how the death certificate is going to read. Death by suicide.’ He reopened the door and looked at me before he headed back in. ‘What the hell else would the kid be doing up there in the first place?’

      Chapter 9

      After they left, Sherwood slipped back into the interrogation room, shutting the door.

      He took out his cell and pressed the number for the hospital over at County, worriedly thumbing the edge of Evan Erlich’s file.

      Stories like his happened every day out there. Gang executions, drug ODs. Runaways. They all had mothers who wept and didn’t understand. Suicide or accident? What did it really matter? The kid was dead. A tragedy was a tragedy. If it hadn’t ended like this, the next time – and there would have been a next time, Sherwood knew – he would have likely taken the mother and father out too.

      His job was to try to make sense of the rotten outcomes. Just not too much sense.

      Tomorrow, sure as sunrise, there’d be two more.

      The hospital operator answered. Sherwood placed the phone to his ear. ‘Dr Derosa, please.’

      He knew about tragedies. And not just on the job. He thought of his son, Kyle, more than twenty years ago, and his wife, Dorrie – almost two years now. He had this new liver. A gift. From a minister. Edward J. Knightly. Now he even peed righteous, Sherwood sometimes said with a laugh. This whole new chance at life. This new lease. What the hell was it even for?

      How do you make sense of others’ tragedies when you can’t even figure out your own?

      A voice came on the line. ‘Dr Derosa here.’

      ‘It’s Sherwood,’ he said, leaning back in the chair. ‘I’m calling about that Erlich kid. That jumper . . .’

      ‘Yeah . . .’ The doctor sighed, as if he didn’t need to be reminded. ‘We’re all really sorry about that one here. I got a call this morning from some relative of his. A doctor.’

      ‘And how did you handle it?’

      ‘How we always handle it, Don. You know we don’t put ourselves directly involved.’

      ‘Yeah, well maybe you want to get yourself a bit more directly involved. At least in this one.’

      The psych ward doctor cleared his throat. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘They want a look at his medical records. They’re right, of course. Funny, they want to know how the hell their son was dropkicked back on the street and a day later ended up dead. And you know what?’

      ‘What?’ The doctor sounded a little peeved.

      ‘I can’t say I really blame them on this one, Mitch. Just thought you’d want a heads-up.’

      ‘The kid was a ticking time bomb, Don. We do our best to stop ’em. This one went off.’

      ‘Well if I were you, Mitch, you might want to look at it again. That it’s all buttoned up.’

      ‘Buttoned up?’ The doctor’s tone now had an edge of irascibility to it.

      ‘Any loose ends . . .’ Sherwood stared at the file, at the copy of Evan’s medical records included there.

      Ones the poor, grieving family would never see.

      They didn’t need anyone tugging on loose ends here. Not the family; not some pushy outsider from New York. The problem with loose ends was, once pulled, you just never knew what would tumble out.

      ‘I think you know what I mean.’

      Chapter 10

      I tried the hospital again as soon as we got back to the apartment.

      Again, no luck.

      The doctor in charge, Derosa, still hadn’t called me back. Which was starting to piss me off, since several hours had passed, and it was professional courtesy to receive a reply. A secretary at his office said he was still at an outside consult.

      Even a call to Brian, the mental health social worker there, went straight to his voice mail.

      I was beginning to feel like a wall of silence was being erected, and the doctor and his staff were bricks in it.

      Finally I got fed up. I was losing valuable time. I tried the nurse’s station at the psych ward. I got to a Janie Middleton, who identified herself as the chief nurse on the ward. ‘I’m told you wanted some information on Evan Erlich?’

      ‘Nurse Middleton’ – I softened my tone – ‘my name is Jay Erlich. I’m a surgeon in vascular medicine at the Westchester Medical Center back east in New York. Evan was my nephew . . .’

      ‘Oh,’ she said, betraying some nerves, ‘I assisted him while he was here. He seemed like a nice boy to me. We’re all so, so sorry for what took place . . .’

      ‘I appreciate that,’ I said. ‘Look, Janie, I know Doctor Derosa isn’t around . . .’

      ‘He’s –’ For a second I thought she was about to say He’s right here. Then she seemed to catch herself. ‘I was told he might not be back for the day, but the first step in any patient inquiry is to request the doctor’s report. The next of kin is entitled to it, of course . . .’

      ‘Of course.’ Everyone was hiding behind the damned report. I just wanted to speak to somebody . . .

      ‘Janie . . .’ I took a breath, trying to hide my frustration. ‘Are you a parent?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, her reserve softening as well. ‘I am.’

      ‘Then you’ll understand. My brother and sister-in-law have just lost their only child. They want an answer.’

      I took her through the events. How Evan went from being on suicide watch to being released, after just days. How he was placed in an unrestricted facility and a day later he was dead. ‘You can understand that. They’re feeling – they were making the responsible decision to put their son in the hands of the county when he got out of control. And no one’s giving them any information on how this happened.’

      ‘Of course I can understand,’ the nurse replied. ‘Look, just petition the medical records. Off the record . . . then the doctor has to officially respond to your questions. I honestly think that’s the best way.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I hope you understand what I’m saying . . .’

      Was there some kind of cover-up going on? Was that why no one was willing to get on the phone with me? What was the hospital hiding?

      ‘I hear you,’ I said, sighing. ‘So how long does that generally take?’

      ‘Four or five business days, I think.’

      ‘Four or five days!’ I wouldn’t even be there then.

      ‘Ask for the medical reports,’ she said again. ‘That’s about the best I can say. We’re just all so sorry . . .’

      Frustrated, I thanked her for her time.

      ‘See, now you’re starting to see what shits they are out here,’ my brother chortled, as if in vindication. ‘How no one lifts a finger for you if you’re poor. You’re just not used to that, little brother.’

      ‘I’m not done.’

      I called the hospital one last time and asked for the head of the Psych Department, a Dr Emil Contreras. I explained to his assistant who I was. She told me Dr Contreras was at a conference in New Orleans and wouldn’t be back until Thursday.

      Thursday I’d be going back home.

      ‘When he checks in, if you can please have him give me a call. It concerns Evan Erlich. It’s urgent.’

      I left my cell number. I wanted to slam down the phone.

      It was only two. And I

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