The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [74]
He rose and took a step toward her. In that frozen, terrifying moment, he sensed his self-control slipping away. Fists clenched, he took another step.
Suddenly, the buzzer from the downstairs foyer sounded. David whirled and half stalked, half stumbled to the intercom in the hall.
“Yes?” he shouted.
“It’s Lieutenant Dockerty, Dr. Shelton.” The policeman’s voice crackled from four floors below. “May I come up, please?”
“Do I have a choice?” David said as he pressed the door release.
For the next half-minute the only sound was David’s breathing—bitter, frantic gulps, gradually slowing as he fought for composure. He had been expecting a visit from Dockerty for the past two days. Typical of the man to pick a time like this to show up. He heard the clank as the gears of the rickety elevator engaged. Standing by the door, he shook his head disdainfully at the groan from the straining cables. The antiquated box took more than a minute to make the four-floor trip. A second clank, and the rattle of the automatic inside gate signaled its arrival. David stepped from his apartment just as Dockerty pushed open the heavy outside door of the elevator. He was accompanied by a tall uniformed officer.
“Dr. Shelton, this is Officer Kolb,” Dockerty said. “May we come in, please?” It was an order. David thought for a moment about Lauren, then shrugged and led them into the living room.
“Miss Nichols.” Dockerty nodded, but made no move to introduce Kolb to her.
Lauren stood and picked up her raincoat. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said formally, “I was just leaving.”
She had taken one step toward the door when Dockerty said, “I think perhaps you had better stay, Miss Nichols.” Lauren’s eyes narrowed at him. She stiffened, then strode back to her chair.
Inside David confusion and panic began to build.
Dockerty stared at the floor for a few silent seconds, then reached into his coat pocket and produced a manillacovered pad. The forms inside it were green. “Dr.Shelton,” he said, handing the pad to David, “do you recognize these?”
David flipped through the sheets, then stammered, “Yes, they’re my C two-twenty-two order forms. But I don’t see what …”
“For ordering narcotics?” Dockerty asked.
“Yes, but …”
“They’re preprinted with your name, aren’t they?”
“Enough!” The word shot out. “I’ve had enough of this. Would you tell me what you want, or … or leave.” He was nearly screaming. Inside his gut, inside his chest huge knots formed and began to tighten.
“Dr. Shelton, I sent notice to all the pharmacies in the city, asking for the names of everyone who purchased injectable morphine in the last month.” He produced a single green form from his breast pocket. “This form C two-twenty-two was used to purchase three vials of morphine sulfate from the Quigg Pharmacy in West Roxbury. It’s dated October second, the day Charlotte Thomas was murdered. It’s your form, Dr. Shelton. There’s your name printed right on it.”
David snatched the form away. “That’s not my signature,” he said automatically. He stared at the writing, then closed his eyes. For years he had been kidded—had himself made jokes—about the scrawl that was his signature. “An unscrupulous chimp could prescribe for my patients,” he had once quipped. The signature on the C222 would have passed his desk without a second notice.
“Perhaps,” Dockerty responded tonelessly. “But I suspect that it is. You see, Doctor, there’s more. The warrant I obtained to search your office allowed me to remove not only your forms, but this.” He reached in his pocket again and produced a small, gold-framed photo. “Mr. Quigg at the pharmacy has positively identified you from this photo as the one who purchased the morphine from him.”
David stared down at the picture. It was one he had never been able to put away. The whole family—David, Ginny, and three-year-old Becky—posing by the swan boats in Boston’s Public Garden.