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My name's Dooligan, but my friends call me Dooley. I'm a private dick. I don't do divorces and I don't do insurance fraud. Lately I've been thinking about adding medical jobs to the list. I'll tell you why in a minute.
The divorce cases I price so high that few are willing to pay the fee. If they are, then fine, I'll do it. But the cases are sloppy affairs that never have any black and white to them, and you can get killed just as dead by a husband as you can fighting for a good cause. No, I specialize in cases that spell trouble, where a wolf is needed to ferret out a wolf. Trouble and Dooley. The two words go hand in hand.
I was just resting up after a hard week finding the victim of an accidental death. Why should I have been hired to do this? Because the police had the dead woman's husband pinned for a murder rap and he paid me to prove his innocence. The couple had been canoeing in the swift spring run-off when the craft tipped and she was lost. The man had a previous marriage ended in a somewhat similar way and now they thought they had him. He underwent a continuous grill to see where he had buried the body.
I took a different track. I went back to the raging stream and studied the currents and eddies for hours. His description of where the accident took place was good, and on the third day I found the woman's body submerged and wedged in a crevice. She was taken for an autopsy, which showed no signs of foul play. The husband was free once again and more than happy to give me a final payment that was more than I asked for.
My body was feeling a little the worse for wear after sleeping on the rocks and spending plenty of time in the nearly freezing water. Hot showers and a warm bathrobe were putting my right and I was in hopes not to hear of another case for at least a month. For entertainment I was bidding on an Internet auction, trying to expand my small collection of Western memorabilia.
In ten minutes an auction was ending on a booklet written by a studio TV man in the fifties. Only eight pages long, it usually went for around eighty dollars. This one was at twenty-two and I hoped this would be my chance to own it. Time was growing short. I put in a bid of thirty and one cent, which would cover the current bid and three proxy bids.
For those of you that don't work the auctions, a bid increment is listed. Say the increment is two bucks and I bid eight, the auction company will automatically increase my bid at two bucks a whack to beat any newcomer. Until you have reached your high bid, of course. This is proxy bidding.
With just four minutes to go and the bid at twenty-six a knock came at the door.
"I'm not home," I shouted. "This is a recording."
"Open up, Dooley, this is important."
"For whom?"
"Everybody. Come on, Dooley, let me in."
With a sigh of regret I got up and opened the door. The intruder was Malcolm Dow. We had gone to school together and now he headed the local hospital. I told him to wait just a second and I checked my auction. Thirty two and less than a minute to go. I hurried to type in my new bid and send it. I might have made it if it wasn't for the verification. They check each bid twice to make sure there are no mistakes, and just before my bid came up....... the auction closed. My luck was running as good as usual. There are sniping programs sold that automatically out bid the other guy at the last second. I swear someone out there has one that just says, "Outbid Dooley."
I shut down the computer in disgust and turned to Dow.
"I came at a bad time, didn't I?" said my old school mate.
"Mac, you are a master of understatement. What brings you over here this evening? Looking for business?"
The smile left Dow's face and he became serious. "The hospital. There have been too many deaths lately."
"Have you thought of malpractice insurance? I hear it's the up and coming thing."
"You are a card. No, I'm serious. There are too many people dying for a population the size of ours. The numbers are off the graph. A lot of them are old, but still, there is no apparent reason for so many to be going in a short time span."
"It's your backyard. Haven't you been able to figure anything out?"
"I have suspicions about one doctor, but no proof. This is more in your line, I think. I knew you'd argue, so I brought a little enticement. Here's ten thousand, and another thirty will follow when you remedy the situation."
"Your logic is hard to refute. I'll do it, now what's the fine print?"
"First, as little as possible exposure for the hospital. That's why I brought cash from the general fund. Try to keep it out of the news, and try not to shoot the place up too badly. I read about your cases in the paper, you see.
"Second, the majority of the patients are those of a Dr. Kyle Richards. I found out enough to make me wonder, but that's why I'm an administrator and you're a detective.
"One more thing, aside from me, nobody knows about you. Try to blend in. I'll try to help, but don't talk to me directly in the open.
"And last, stop him. Never mind the rules. Do whatever it takes."
The next morning I went through the list of the deceased looking for common themes. Mac had left me codes and passwords to hack into thee hospital data. I've got to admit, there are some things about the computer age that I like.
Eighty seven percent of the patients had been attended to by Dr. Richards. This I had been told. It hardly meant the man was a murderer. Deaths were all from pre-existing conditions. As I understood the matter, this meant there would be no calls for autopsies.
On a hunch I went down to the probate court and scanned the records. I was no stranger in this office, and except from a hopeful "Good morning" from a divorcee whose hunger was a nearly visible aura, my presence there went unnoticed.
It didn't take long to spot a trend. About half of the recently departed had been elderly and were the last of their line. Therefore it was natural that they would will their property to the doctor in return for his services in their last years. That was common, but like Mac said, the numbers were way off scale.
I decided to pay the good doctor a visit. Might as well take a first hand look at the subject of contention. Maybe even rattle him a little.
I wore a gray suit, and when I passed a laundry depot in the hospital's wing I donned a white OR jacked that made me look at bit more at home. I hoped. Part way down the hall I met a familiar face and thought my cover was blown.
Elsie Durgan had been a presence in this city ever since I could remember. She had served sodas at the teen hang out when I was in high school and had worked in about every local restaurant at one time or another. I tried to guess her age. I couldn't. She had to be in her eighties. Too old for waitressing anymore, it looked like she was volunteering here at the hospital.
Volunteers at most hospitals are called candy stripers. The local versions were called angels, perhaps because they tended to be old volunteers like Elsie. The teenagers didn't show up like in the older days.
"Doolie, I haven't seen you in a long time. I've read about you in the papers, though. You've got quite a reputation." She edge closer and in a low voice she asked me, "It's about all these deaths, isn't it? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone what you're up to. Take a close look at Kyle Richards. He thinks he's Dr. Kevorkian. There's something evil inside the man."
I thanked her and went on my way. I figured Mac was too late in asking me to do this on the quiet. The grapevine around here must be very strong, as it is in most confined environments.
I brushed past the receptionist and went directly into Richards' office.
"Who do you think you are?" he asked with a snarl.
"I'm Dr. Dooligan."
"You don't look like any doctor to me. What kind of doctor?"
"I'm a proctologist. I deal with assholes like you."
The rage expressed in his face was a sight to behold. His eyes became bug like and the veins in his temples looked like they might explode.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he nearly screamed.
"It means I've been looking at your patient list. A lot of them seem to be checking out a day too soon. I looked at the probate records as well. You must be set well for retirement."
"GET OUT!" He offered no arguments; just shooed me from his office like a bad virus.
It was one thirty in the morning of the next day. I was lying on my back on a bed in a private room of the hospital. Word had been given out that I was the victim of a car accident and might be in an extended coma. Mac had bandaged me up until I looked like the leading monster in an old mummy movie. Monitors and a feeding tube were hooked to my arms. So far it had been a quiet evening.
I was just dozing off when the door cracked open and a slight figure slipped in.
A whisper asked, "Dooley, are you awake?"
I didn't answer. I wanted to see what would happen. Satisfied that I was asleep the figure came closed and produced a syringe. It was Elsie, but something about her stealthy manner kept me still.
"Oh Dooley, I'm sorry to do this, but I know you'd figure it out when you come around. Nobody lives forever, so you might as well go now before you stop me."
With that she disconnected the tube in my right arm and started to insert her needle in its place. The click of the 38 Special in my left hand stopped her.
"Why, Elsie? They didn't have long to live anyway."
"Kyle Richards. It was his fault that my Henry died and I swore someday I would make him pay. I would have, too, if you hadn't shown up."
It's over now, Elsie, give me the needle."
With a speed that amazed me she drove the needle into her own vein and squeezed the plunger. She was dead before she hit the floor. At least I didn't have to worry about catching some rare disease.
The syringe had been filled with just plain air.
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