Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [61]
“No, Hatch, nothing wrong with it.”
She’d seen him slip into this combative mood plenty of times since being assigned to his squad and had learned that it was best to get away as quickly as possible.
“You know, Mary, I’m really not a bad guy. I just care too damn much.”
She nodded and was gone.
Hatcher prepared to leave, too, but his wife called.
“Hey, babe, what’s up?”
“I’m just making sure you don’t miss the doctor’s appointment I made for you this afternoon.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go.”
“It’s important, Hatch.”
“I know it is. Don’t worry. He’ll tell me to take a couple of aspirin and forget about it.”
“You’re probably right, but better safe than sorry. That’s my motto.”
“You got a lot of mottos, Mae.”
She giggled. “I guess I do. Don’t be late for your appointment, Hatch. Promise?”
“I’ll probably have to sit there for an hour. You know how these damn doctors are. But I’ll be on time. Gotta run. Things to do.”
He’d agreed to see their family physician to stop Mae from nagging him, although he’d finally, albeit reluctantly, admitted to himself that the severe headaches he’d been suffering, and the occasional nausea, had worried even him. Actually, their “family” physician pretty much had Mae as his only patient. The kids were gone, and Hatcher hadn’t been seen by him since a physical three or four years ago that pronounced him in relatively good health aside from high cholesterol, high blood pressure, swelling in his legs, nagging lower back pain, almost constant acid reflux, and assorted other ailments that made it sound to Hatcher as though he was about to keel over. The doctor urged him to have further tests, and Hatcher assured him that he would. He never did. Nor did he tell Mae what the doctor had said. All that would have accomplished was to initiate a new round of badgering. He didn’t need that.
For Mae, that he’d agreed to see their physician that afternoon represented a major breakthrough. Men could be so stubborn, she was fond of telling her female friends at their weekly gathering to play cards and swap stories about their husbands.
Hatcher had a few hours to kill before his doctor’s appointment. There was paperwork to catch up on, including writing the report of his “interview” with Yankavich, but he wasn’t in the mood for it. He decided to go to Joe’s Bar and Grille for lunch, and maybe a vodka or two to steady his nerves. Wouldn’t do to breathe high-octane bourbon fumes on the doc, would it?
As cavalier as he was with Mae about his health, the thought of actually seeing a doctor had set him on edge. The worst possible scenarios filled his thoughts: “You have a month to live, Mr. Hatcher. I suggest you go home and put your things in order.” Or “You have a very aggressive form of cancer, Mr. Hatcher. Our only hope is an equally aggressive form of chemotherapy that will wipe you out for at least six months. And oh, by the way, there’s no guarantee it will work.”
He was all bravado on the outside, somewhere inside a frightened little boy.
Hatch was on his way out of the building when fellow detectives Shrank and Williams arrived.
“Hello, Hatch,” Williams said, gruffly.
“Yeah, hello,” Hatcher said. “You two got a minute?”
“Just a minute,” Shrank said.
They stood outside. “I understand you two heard me wrong,” Hatcher said. He shifted from one foot to the other.
“That so?”
“Yeah. It seems you guys were filing some sort of complaint against me, like for not being politically correct.” He gave them a toothy grin.
“You’ve got a big mouth, Hatch,” said Shrank. He was even taller and heavier than the white detective.
“Yeah, well, sometimes I like to kid around, you know? That’s all it was, kidding around.”
“You’ve got a different sense of humor,” Williams said. He was shorter and older, with cotton patches of white hair at his temples.
“You’ve gotta have a sense of humor in this job, huh?” Hatcher said. Another smile. “Anyway, no hard feelings. You