Medical Judgment. Richard L. Mabry, M.D.
“Pull up a chair from one of those other desks. I was just starting to interview the doctor.”
Andrews reached down and hugged Sarah Gordon, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than mere friendship would dictate, something that didn’t escape Larson’s attention. Then the lawyer grabbed a chair from the next desk, pulled it over beside Dr. Gordon, and sat.
“Well, I’m glad I made it in time,” the lawyer said. “I always advise my clients not to talk to the police without their attorney present.”
Larson wasn’t certain why he didn’t trust Kyle Andrews. Perhaps it was just his nature as a policeman to look askance at people. His wife—that is, his ex-wife—had mentioned that tendency on more than one occasion. Today, Andrews was in full lawyer mode: gray glen plaid suit, red and gray tie, rust-colored hair carefully styled, rimless glasses giving him a serious look. Even his briefcase was perfect for the part, scuffed just enough to show it wasn’t just for show.
The detective directed his attention to Sarah. “Dr. Gordon,” Larson said, “Let me make it clear that we don’t suspect you of anything. I don’t think you’ll need a lawyer.” He looked pointedly at Andrews for a moment before turning back to Dr. Gordon. “I’ll say up front that all I’m looking for from you is information.”
“And I’ll say up front that I’m here to lend some support to a friend,” Andrews said with a half-smile.
Larson nodded. He sensed that he and Kyle Andrews might not end up exchanging Christmas cards. On the other hand, it seemed they both had Sarah Gordon’s best interest in mind. He’d accept that for now. The detective pulled a note pad toward him. “Let’s start with the names of anyone who might be angry with you—not necessarily someone who’d want to kill you, but people who might carry a grudge, be unhappy with something you’ve done. Disappointed patients. Frustrated colleagues. People from your personal life who might wish to harm you. Anyone.”
The doctor’s immediate response was, “I don’t know of anyone who fits that description.”
“You may change your mind as you think about that,” Larson said. “Let’s consider patients. How about them?”
“As an emergency room physician I treat dozens of people every day. Some of the cases are simple. Some are literally life-and-death situations. I exercise my medical judgment all the time, and if I make a mistake, the consequences could be minor or they could be catastrophic. Most of the time I don’t even remember the names of the patients I treat, much less which ones could be carrying a grudge.”
“Okay, I may want to go through some ER records with you to get some names, but we’ll come back to that,” Larson said. “Anything from your personal life? I’m sorry that I have to ask, but any ex-boyfriends, former lovers, men you disappointed?”
Before Sarah could open her mouth, Kyle Andrews said, “Are you implying—”
“I’m not implying anything,” Larson said. “I have to ask these questions, and if you think about it, you’ll see that.” He looked at Dr. Gordon. “Anyone?”
“No,” she said, and shook her head.
“Did you hear or see anything last night before the fire started? Was there anything that suggested there might be someone in your house or garage?”
She chewed on her lower lip. Larson knew from experience there was something there—if he could just keep quiet long enough.
“I didn’t hear anything until I awoke to the smell of smoke. There might have been a noise downstairs at about that time—I wasn’t sure. Then, after I got out of the house, I thought I saw a shadow hurrying around the corner of the house.”
“Which side?”
“Where the garage is,” she said.
“That would be the west side.” Larson made a note. “I know you didn’t mention this to me at the time, but did you tell the chief or any of the firefighters about it?”
“No, I guess I was too rattled,” she said. “And, honestly, I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t imagined it.”
“Do you have any idea how an intruder got into the garage to set the fire?” Larson asked.
“I’ve wondered about that,” Dr. Gordon said. “I have an electric garage door opener, and the remote is supposed to have what they call a rolling code so someone can’t just open the door with his or her own remote.”
“There are at least a couple of ways, actually,” Larson replied. “First, I noticed your car was parked at the curb last night. Most people keep their garage door opener remote clipped to their auto’s sun visor. Is that what you do?”
She nodded.
“Thieves now have sophisticated ways to get into cars without leaving a trace. If he did that, a press of the button on the remote and the garage door would open for him.”
“Is that what he did?” she asked.
“No, he used a very low-tech method to get into the garage, and he didn’t need a remote control for it.”
Andrews leaned forward in his chair and asked, “And you know this how?”
“Two things,” Larson said. “First, when we looked inside, the fire marshal and I both noticed the emergency release for the garage door opener had been tripped. And second . . . ” He reached under his desk and produced a straightened wire coat hanger and a small triangular piece of wood. “I found these on the floor of the garage near the door.” He shoved them forward. “You can touch them. They didn’t have any useful fingerprints on them.”
“How—” Dr. Gordon started to ask.
“Whoever broke in inserted the wooden wedge under the weather-stripping at the top of the garage door. Then he used the opening he created to insinuate this coat hanger along the track. When the coat hanger was far enough in, he hooked the emergency release lever and pulled it.”
“Then—” Andrews said.
“Then he set the fire, closed the garage door manually, and waited to see what happened,” Larson said.
“And maybe that’s the noise I heard,” she said.
“Which brings up the question of why all he did was pile some oily rags on the garage floor and set them afire. It would have been easy for the intruder to go through your garage into your kitchen and . . . ”
“And take what he wanted, assault me, or even murder me in my sleep,” Dr. Gordon said. “I wonder why he didn’t.”
Larson’s gaze went to Kyle Andrews and he realized the attorney had made the same assumption he had. Maybe whoever did this didn’t want to kill Dr. Sarah Gordon. Maybe he wanted to frighten her. And judging from what Larson had seen last night and this morning, he’d succeeded.
* * *
Early summer days in Texas could be pleasant or they could be very hot. It was almost noon, and today the sun on the concrete in downtown Jameson produced heat that was withering. Sarah stood in the shade of the blue awning that covered the entrance to the Jameson Police Department’s headquarters and listened as Kyle Andrews offered advice she didn’t want to hear.
“If you don’t want to stay with a friend or neighbor, why don’t you let me get you settled into a hotel for a few days? I know the owner of a company that does remediation—that is, they restore damage after fires. If I call him right now, I can meet his crew over at your house with a key. If they start cleaning the smoke and soot from your place this morning—let’s see, this is Saturday—you’ll probably be able to move back in by Monday. Maybe even earlier.”
“Kyle,” Sarah said, trying to be patient, “First of all, I don’t want some stranger to have a key to my house. And besides that, I’m not going to leave there . . . not even for one night.”
“Why?”