Read Online Likely to Die by Linda Fairstein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Fairstein
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X-ray rooms in whatever hospital he’s spending his time in ‘cause he’s too cheap to spring for a hotel. Somebody from the team will have to talk to him when he shows up for duty tomorrow. We’re checking all the local staff.”
“Talk to him?” Chapman broke in. “I’d like to beat the crap out of him. The only difference between what he did to an anesthetized patient and necrophilia is that the body was still warm. What the hell is that kind of thing all about?”
“Come to my lecture for the Lenox Hill Debs tomorrow night, I’ll try to explain it. Now, Sarah Brenner has an active one. She’s got a complaint about an attending ob-gyn. He’s a world-renowned fertility expert with an office on Fifth Avenue. He’s got privileges at Mid-Manhattan, as well as three other East Side hospitals, so he’s in and out of here all the time. No record—name’s Lars Ericson. Victim claims he raped her when she came into town from New Hampshire last month.”
“Has he been collared yet?”
“Not—”
McGraw barked at me. “What are you waiting for?”
“Well, Chief, the victim suffers from multiple personality disorder—she’s thirty or forty different women, depending on what day of the week you talk to her. It seems that two or three of her personalities wanted to have sex with Dr. Ericson, but at least one of the others didn’t want to consent. Sarah’s trying to figure out which one made the complaint.”
Wallace passed behind me to grab a soda out of the refrigerator, whispering as he bent over, “Welcome to the wacky world of sex crimes. This should be an eye-opener for the Chief.”
McGraw wasn’t amused.
“Then we have our stalker: Mohammed Melin. Remember De Niro inTaxi Driver? Well, this guy makes him look easy. Melin drives a yellow. Owns a medallion. Seems he had some kind of prostate infection, so he showed up in the emergency room here late one night. A young resident treated him—she’s a very good doctor, and she’s lovely as well. Examined him, prescribed some medication, and simply rubbed a little salve onto his penis—fifteen minutes of tender loving care and she hasn’t been able to get rid of him ever since that encounter.”
“Actually, Chief, that’s how it started with Coop and me,” Chapman interjected. “One stroke and I’ve been following her like a slave for ten years. Love reallyis a many-splendored thing.”
I ignored him and went on with my litany. “Now Mohammed waits outside the hospital in his cab whenever he’s in the area. Elena Kingsland—she’s the doctor—finishes a shift, walks out of the hospital exhausted in the middle of the night. She steps off the curb to hail a cab and there’s Mohammed. No charges against him yet, if you can imagine it—just sitting in his taxi on a public street, not doing anything to anybody according to the Penal Law. Twice he’s been caught in the hospital, roaming around trying to find Kingsland at 3 or 4A.M. Those arrests for trespass have been misdemeanors, so he’s been walked in and out of the system both times. We’ve been trying to work him up for something more serious. Finally found a welfare fraud and we now have a warrant for his arrest on that case, but he hasn’t been around in at least three weeks.”
That was all I had on the list for Mid-Manhattan Hospital. Wallace watched me put down the first pad and reach for the next one in the pile, where I had gone on to note incidents in other facilities.
“Hey, Alex, don’t forget that one I’m sitting on in Stuyvesant. We’ll have an answer on that in a few weeks.”
“Tell them about it, Mercer. I didn’t even include it in the roundup. Sorry, my fault.”
“There’s a twenty-six-year-old woman in the psych wing. She was emotionally disturbed as a teenager. Tried to kill herself with an overdose when she was seventeen. Been in a coma ever since. Almost ten years and the most she can do is move her eyelids from
“Talk to him?” Chapman broke in. “I’d like to beat the crap out of him. The only difference between what he did to an anesthetized patient and necrophilia is that the body was still warm. What the hell is that kind of thing all about?”
“Come to my lecture for the Lenox Hill Debs tomorrow night, I’ll try to explain it. Now, Sarah Brenner has an active one. She’s got a complaint about an attending ob-gyn. He’s a world-renowned fertility expert with an office on Fifth Avenue. He’s got privileges at Mid-Manhattan, as well as three other East Side hospitals, so he’s in and out of here all the time. No record—name’s Lars Ericson. Victim claims he raped her when she came into town from New Hampshire last month.”
“Has he been collared yet?”
“Not—”
McGraw barked at me. “What are you waiting for?”
“Well, Chief, the victim suffers from multiple personality disorder—she’s thirty or forty different women, depending on what day of the week you talk to her. It seems that two or three of her personalities wanted to have sex with Dr. Ericson, but at least one of the others didn’t want to consent. Sarah’s trying to figure out which one made the complaint.”
Wallace passed behind me to grab a soda out of the refrigerator, whispering as he bent over, “Welcome to the wacky world of sex crimes. This should be an eye-opener for the Chief.”
McGraw wasn’t amused.
“Then we have our stalker: Mohammed Melin. Remember De Niro inTaxi Driver? Well, this guy makes him look easy. Melin drives a yellow. Owns a medallion. Seems he had some kind of prostate infection, so he showed up in the emergency room here late one night. A young resident treated him—she’s a very good doctor, and she’s lovely as well. Examined him, prescribed some medication, and simply rubbed a little salve onto his penis—fifteen minutes of tender loving care and she hasn’t been able to get rid of him ever since that encounter.”
“Actually, Chief, that’s how it started with Coop and me,” Chapman interjected. “One stroke and I’ve been following her like a slave for ten years. Love reallyis a many-splendored thing.”
I ignored him and went on with my litany. “Now Mohammed waits outside the hospital in his cab whenever he’s in the area. Elena Kingsland—she’s the doctor—finishes a shift, walks out of the hospital exhausted in the middle of the night. She steps off the curb to hail a cab and there’s Mohammed. No charges against him yet, if you can imagine it—just sitting in his taxi on a public street, not doing anything to anybody according to the Penal Law. Twice he’s been caught in the hospital, roaming around trying to find Kingsland at 3 or 4A.M. Those arrests for trespass have been misdemeanors, so he’s been walked in and out of the system both times. We’ve been trying to work him up for something more serious. Finally found a welfare fraud and we now have a warrant for his arrest on that case, but he hasn’t been around in at least three weeks.”
That was all I had on the list for Mid-Manhattan Hospital. Wallace watched me put down the first pad and reach for the next one in the pile, where I had gone on to note incidents in other facilities.
“Hey, Alex, don’t forget that one I’m sitting on in Stuyvesant. We’ll have an answer on that in a few weeks.”
“Tell them about it, Mercer. I didn’t even include it in the roundup. Sorry, my fault.”
“There’s a twenty-six-year-old woman in the psych wing. She was emotionally disturbed as a teenager. Tried to kill herself with an overdose when she was seventeen. Been in a coma ever since. Almost ten years and the most she can do is move her eyelids from
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