Ding Dong Bell - Death in a Stairwell: A Medical Mystery

By Frances E. Hagaman

Trish McLeod MD, professor of psychiatry in a southern medical school returns once again to discover the reason for a series of mysterious deaths when a woman is discovered in the stairwell. Why do all the victims have the same tiny heart tattoo? Fellow faculty members and a high school friend join forces again in this second book

• Language: English
• Publisher: Loch Wohl Press
• Release date: Nov 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780974964935

Book preview

Acknowledgments

The author gratefully acknowledges the kind assistance

she has received from the following:

Joe and Barbara Manno – forensic toxicologists

Pat Matson – editorial assistance

Dr. Lee Morgan

Mark Saloff – cover design

Jamie Saloff – book layout and design

❀

One

Whew! Men! said Clare.

What’s up? said Trish, a slim brunette, turning from her computer screen.

It was early afternoon at the Gulf Coast Medical Center where both women were professors of Psychiatry.

Nothing I hope, and I pity the woman who’s around when it is. That guy was about to get a hard-on during the physical exam.

What are you talking about, Clare?

That kid; actually he’s in his thirties. A few minutes ago, I entered him in the anxiety study. He’s hung like a horse.

Maybe his women like him that way. Trish smiled, her blue gray eyes twinkling in amusement.

I find that hard to believe. Talk about anxious. He was trembling like a leaf.

Enough of this discussion. What else is going on?

Us being in a male-dominated department, you’re about the only person I can even mention such things as this to.

Clare, maybe your blonde hair and perfume — I notice you have on Dolce & Gabanna today — made him anxious.

Oh, Trish, I doubt that.

You never know what rings someone’s bell.

Trish swiveled her chair to one side and arose in a quick graceful movement. I need to check in with Sheila, so toddle on to your consultation rounds.

Sheila, Trish’s red-haired stressed-out secretary, occupied the main department office around the corner a scant five yards away.

Trish headed for her overflowing mailbox.

Hi, Sheila. What’s the word?

Cooking with Crisco, Dr. Trish. Have a good morning at Mental Health?

Yes, indeed; no patients on my book showed up, so I checked email, a couple of blogs, Googled a bit, and read an on-line case conference. On the way back to the Medical Center, I noticed something building up weather wise to the southwest toward the Gulf. We may have a thundershower in a bit.

Hope it doesn’t happen before I leave. I left my windows down.

Trish removed the stack of assorted mail from her box and sorted through it, giving only a cursory glance before tossing most in the trash can at her feet. A few first class letters and messages in her hand, Trish continued, Think I’ll walk around to the Chairman’s office for a little chat with Martha.

Be kind. She’s stressed out today.

What about?

Sheila rolled her chair across the office to retrieve an incoming FAX.

Oh, something about the Dean calling for Dr. Parker, and Parker told her to say he wasn’t in and the Dean knew that he was. So she was caught in the middle, fibbing for her boss, but in big trouble with the big boss. Sheila rolled her chair back and tilted it.

That could have been handled better, said Trish frowning.

Sheila arose placing her hands akimbo on her hips and continued.

Dr. Trish, does he really need to do all that traveling? He’s gone more than he is here.

I can’t say for sure, Sheila. He does speak at lots of meetings, but I think he simply likes to travel and looks for opportunity as his predecessors did. Maybe he has a mistress or two in some of those cities.

Grinning, Sheila quipped, Dr. Trish! Shame on you!

I didn’t mean to say that. A mere Freudian slip. He probably has problems getting it up. I bet he never passes up Viagra samples. Let me go cheer Martha up.

Dr. Trish, you are so bad. I hope no one else hears you talking that way.

They won’t unless you rat, Sheila.

With a grin and a slight swagger, Trish exited the office and strode down the hall, her shoes squeaking and clicking on the terrazzo floor.

A few minutes later as Martha and Trish had their heads together, discussing strategy for handling Martha’s dilemma, when a loud boom of thunder penetrated the windowless office. Both women jumped and Martha said, Check on that, will you, Dr. Trish? The window in the stairwell at the end of the hall looks out the other way from those in the seminar room. Maybe you can see something from there.

The fire exit stairwell located in a rear corner of the building was seldom entered, because it wasn’t suitable for shortcuts. Below the psychiatry floor, there were only entries from the rear library stacks. The doors locked upon entering the stairwell; and unless someone came to the rescue, the only way to the outside was at the very bottom of the stairs. When opened, the emergency door there set off an alarm equal in intensity to cats mating. That stairwell was a dead area of the building. It served as an infirmary for the office staff’s potted plants set out on a windowsill for an occasional dose of light. However, its most frequent use was to check on weather conditions.

The heavy door, with its small eye-level reinforced glass window, resisted as Trish pushed to open it.

God, is this thing stuck? Great, for a fire exit; can’t get the frigging door open, she muttered as she put her shoulder to it while turning the handle.

The door gave way and she stepped around it into the stairwell.

Holy shit! It’s a damn body, exclaimed Trish.

The young Asian woman, a crumpled heap on the floor in a white lab coat with a Biochemistry label on the breast pocket, had prevented the easy opening of the door. Trish knelt and lifted one eyelid a bit.

Pupil fixed and dilated, whispered Trish.

As she checked for a carotid pulse, she continued under her breath, She’s dead; stone cold dead. Hell, what’s this?

The young woman’s silky black hair fell back from her neck revealing a small blue heart-shaped tattoo on her neck behind her left ear. On the floor beside the body lay a slip of paper with a phone number she recognized as Clare’s personal office number.

Trish bolted from the stairwell into the nearest office.

Call Security! There’s a corpse in the stairwell! No need for a crash cart. She’s dead for certain.

❀

Two

The news of the discovery spread at warp speed throughout the Medical Center. This was the first incident of this magnitude since a female graduate student was raped and thrown off the top floor of the Research Building while it was under construction several years earlier. That killer was now serving a life sentence up state at Parchman Prison.

Trish walked down the hall to her office and sat stunned at her desk. She realized she had picked up the slip of paper with her dear friend Clare’s number on it.

Moments later Sheila entered the office with a look of concern.

You okay, Dr. Trish?

I think so, Sheila. You heard?

Yeah, saw the police walk by my office. You found the body?

Damnation, yes. I was going to look out the window to check on the thunder Martha and I heard. Body rigid, she rotated her chair in a complete circle.

How long had she been there?

Hard to say, but there was no doubt she was dead. No pulse, and cool to touch.

You touched her? Sheila put her hand to her open mouth in horror.

Sheila, I had to check for a pulse and you can’t do that by looking, and the funniest, not funny, but most interesting thing is she had a little blue heart tattoo on her neck behind her left ear, same shape and color as one a research volunteer who was rejected for the anxiety study had a couple of weeks ago. Trish pulled her fingers through her dark hair and rubbed the back of her neck.

Maybe that’s the latest thing? A fad, like a certain kind of shoes or piece of jewelry, Dr. Trish?

Sheila sat on top of a pile of papers stacked on a chair in Trish’s overstuffed office.

Could be. Somehow I don’t get that impression. I’m going to wait here for the police to come. Send them around if they show up in your office. Without a doubt, everyone in this part of the building will be questioned.

Sheila arose to leave. No problem, Dr. Trish.

One more thing, Sheila, do you remember seeing any Asian staff or students walking by your office? The glass wall in your office and your door open give you a good view of traffic.

No, none caught my attention. So many walk by doing their walkabout exercise, I pay no mind unless they stick their head in my door and speak.

She was such a little thing, Sheila.

Trish’s throat and chest tightened and her breathing became shallow. Like a little white bird in that lab coat, with coal black hair in a page-boy bob, shiny as a crow. There was an ID badge and access card on a strap around her neck.

Her coat label said Biochemistry? asked Sheila as she turned to leave.

Trish nodded and bit her lower lip. Yes, and we’re a long way from that department. I seldom see any of those graduate students past the main bank of elevators. Say, Sheila, ask around what’s the latest in tattoos, will you?

Sheila rolled her eyes.

Sure thing, Dr. Trish. I better get back to my office and the phones. Bev, our current student clerk, will be having a fit answering them since she doesn’t think it is her job.

Close the door, will you? And turn off the overhead light. This banker’s lamp on my desk is sufficient for now.

Trish swiveled the desk chair to reach the radio/cd player on the credenza behind the desk. The soothing sound of a Chopin nocturne wafted over her as she leaned back, closing her eyes, and gently rocked.

Trish knew a dialog was beginning between the critical and fun-loving parts of her psyche.

Now you’ve done it again.

What?

Stumbled on another corpse. Now, why has this happened once more?

Just bad luck, I guess.

Oh, no! You can’t get away with that. Remember when you discovered Hilda Rasberry’s body. What was the reason?

Oh, you mean doing something someone asks me to check on?

Yep! Was it your idea to check on the weather?

No, it was Martha’s, and boy, did she jump when we heard the thunder.

Some people might check, see a body, realize the person was dead, and let someone else report it. Ever think of that?

No, but it is possible that my fingerprints are on the doorknob anyway. I was struggling so to open the damn door.

Did you see a weapon?

No, I didn’t look that close. What makes you ask that? Maybe she was caught by the door and died of some attack like a cardiac arrest because no one heard her knocking. Or maybe she went into the stairwell from the library stacks for a snort of something like coke and it was extra strong and she arrested. We’ve seen that in the ER more than once in a young person.

Oh shut up! Sometimes I get so fed up with you and your ideas.

As Trish concluded her internal dialog there was a knock at the door.

Come on in. It’s open.

Trish turned her chair and arose as a clean-cut man with gray eyes opened the door and hesitated.

Dr. McLeod?

Officers, come in and have a seat. Put those papers on the floor and please, call me Dr. Trish.

My pleasure. My name is Bill Swanson and this is Detective Dick Benson.

As he sat, the detective said, I believe we had some contact a year or two back on another case, didn’t we?

Yes, it was Hilda Rasberry. I found her body in the bathtub at the Mental Health Clinic.

That case was solved, as I remember with your input. How did you happen to discover this young woman’s body?

Swanson surveyed the office before making eye contact again.

Trish related what happened and how she was checking on the weather.

By the way, was it raining when you came inside? she asked.

Only a sprinkle, replied Swanson. Now, did you know this young woman?

Not one for social graces is he?

No, sir. I don’t remember seeing her around the school — say in the Deli or on the elevators. But that doesn’t mean much. We have hundreds of students if you include all types. Many are primarily in the hospital and don’t venture into this part of the Medical Center.

Ever?

I couldn’t say for certain. The library is nearby. If there was a crunch for space, possibly one of our seminar rooms or a classroom might be used. Many office staff pass down this hall on their walkabouts because it is on the route to the Medical School, where one can walk the farthest without opening doors. Mostly though, we use the space ourselves. Did she die right there, Detective?

I’m not at liberty to share my view at this time. If she did, we’ll know after the post.

My God! Trish drew in a sharp breath. I walked past there several times yesterday. I didn’t notice anything.

The entrance to that stairwell is set back in an alcove, said Detective Swanson. There was no reason for you to check unless there was someone knocking to get out, or you were checking on the weather as you did today.

You are right, but the thought still gives me the creeps. Will you want my fingerprints again? asked Trish.

Not necessary; you’re on file. Thank you for your time today.

Swanson arose, nodded to his partner, who replaced the papers from the floor to the chair, and, making another slow survey of the room with his eyes, turned to leave.

I hope we haven’t taken too much of your time.

No problem. You can leave the door ajar for now, Detective.

❀

Three

Trish swiveled her chair facing away from the door, kicked