Death Wears a Red Hat Read online

  She spent the afternoon and evening in bed, alternately shivering and perspiring as she thrashed about.

  It was evening. Her mother and father were sitting on either side of her bed. She was conscious, but confused and on the verge of delirium.

  “Please, baby, won’t you tell us what happened?” her father asked, repeating a question he had asked many times this evening. “What is it did this to you?”

  “No, no, it’s a disgrace,” she mumbled, “I can’t do that!”

  “Fred,” said her mother, “she’s getting worse. I think we ought to call an ambulance.”

  Fred Garson hesitated. It wasn’t so much the expense of a private ambulance as it was he didn’t want her out of the house and their care if he could help it.

  “No, Louise,” said Garson, “let’s just wait another few minutes and see if she doesn’t start to pull out of this.”

  “What will you do to me if I don’t do it?” asked Diane of no one. Her head flopped back and forth on the sweat-soaked pillow.

  “Tell us what happened, baby,” said Fred Garson. “What is it did this to you?”

  Suddenly, Diane’s small body stiffened. She seemed to lapse into unconsciousness.

  “Fred,” said Mrs. Garson tensely, “I think she’s going into shock. I’m calling the ambulance.”

  “O.K., Louise. But call the private service. We don’t want her taken to some second-rate hospital.”

  “I was really hard up for a job,” said Linda Ryder, “but I don’t know about this one.”

  Ryder, a registered nurse, had been employed recently by Services, Inc. A tall, attractive redhead, she was standing in the reception room drinking coffee prior to opening the clinic this Thursday morning.

  “You’ll get over it,” assured Patricia Teague.

  Teague, of medium height, in her mid-fifties, with graying hair, had been registered nurse-receptionist at Services, Inc. for the past five years. Long ago she had “gotten over it.”

  “It’s funny,” said Ryder, “when I graduated, an RN could get a job almost anywhere. I never thought then that I’d be unemployed for eight months.”

  Teague smiled. “The market isn’t what it used to be,” she commented.

  “But,” a troubled expression clouded Ryder’s face, “I don’t know about this place. I mean, I don’t have any qualms about abortion. If a woman wants one she ought to be able to get one. But this place! That Dr. Schmitt is so sloppy. It’s a wonder he doesn’t kill somebody!”

  “We haven’t lost one yet. Not that we know of, at any rate,” Teague added.

  “Then there was that poor kid yesterday. You know, the one in the morning. She wasn’t even pregnant. Why did we accept her anyway?”

  “That’s the way we eat. We earn money. That’s what we’re here for, dearie. Don’t forget that: money.”

  “Well, can you explain why we used the saline solution? That’s not normally used till midterm. Why would Dr. Schmitt use it when there wasn’t even a pregnancy?”

  “One thing you ought to keep in mind about Schmitt.” Teague looked up from the records she was sorting. “Besides being sloppy, he has a strong sadistic streak. Dr. Schmitt does not like women. He’s the opposite of the physician who tries not to cause pain.

  “Oh, I know he puts on this high-and-mighty I’m-only-here-to-help-you-my-dear attitude, but don’t you believe it. He figures if they’re stupid enough to get themselves pregnant, he’ll make sure they learn their lesson.”

  A song from “Man of La Mancha” leapt to Ryder’s mind. “He’s only thinking of them,” she murmured.

  Teague, unfamiliar with either the song or the implication, missed the irony. “No, he’s only thinking of money.”

  Then, noting her co-worker’s distressed expression, she snapped, “And so are we or we wouldn’t be here!”

  Ryder took a final sip of coffee and vowed that at the first opportunity she’d seek employment elsewhere. There had been no mention of money in the pledge she’d taken when they’d capped her on graduation.

  “What have we got here, Doc?” asked Lieutenant Tom Bourque.

  “We’ve got a mess that started bad and got worse,” said Dr. John O’Donavan.

  Bourque, head of Homicide Squad One, had been called earlier by Koznicki, who had informed him of the suspicious death at Holy Cross Hospital.

  Bourque was standing with the head of Holy Cross’ Pathology Department in the hospital’s basement.

  “The identity is Diane Garson,” said O’Donavan, “eighteen years of age.”

  Bourque busily took notes as O’Donavan related details of the case.

  “The cause of death is septicemia—blood poisoning. It may have little to do with your investigation, but you might like to know this little girl suffered a lot before she died,” O’Donavan added.

  Bourque shook his head in sympathy. Beyond a general humanitarian interest, the victim’s suffering was of no value to an investigation, and thus, of no value to Bourque.

  “At this point,” O’Donavan continued, “we are quite certain the infection that caused the septicemia began in the pelvic region. The endometrium, the lining of the womb, has been freshly shed. We found unusual amounts of saline solution in the tissues of the uterus, which, in some areas, has been damaged by the solution.”

  Bourque looked up, tapping his pen against his note pad. “An abortion, Doc?”

  “Looks like an abortion,” O’Donavan confirmed, “that was only a small level above the back alley kind.”

  Bourque’s expression invited amplification.

  “Either,” O’Donavan continued, “the lining of the vagina was not sterilized, or the object inserted, probably a pump, was contaminated, or both. In any case, the infection began in that area. There are definite signs the abortion was performed in a clinic but probably in a badly run clinic.”

  “Looks like homicide,” Bourque opined.

  “There’s one more thing you ought to know,” said O’Donavan. “It may not bear directly on the investigation, but it may help to know what kind of person you’re looking for.”

  Bourque waited.

  “The Garson girl either wasn’t pregnant at all or she was in the very earliest stage.”

  “Yes?” Bourque knew there was more.

  “A saline injection is used for abortion only in the middle stages of pregnancy. There was no need whatever to use it on the Garson girl in her early state.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means you’re looking for someone—with at least some medical training very probably—who missed his vocation when he was born too late to run a Nazi death camp.”

  “We don’t know the age of this butcher, Doc,” said an impressed Bourque, “maybe he’s one of those Nazis who got away. But if he is,” Bourque paused for effect, “he won’t get away this time.”

  “The thing that really pisses me off, Leroi, is that you lied to me!”

  Georgia Thomas, young, black, slightly overweight, sat on the passenger’s side of Leroi Jackson’s rusted old Ford. Jackson, lean, black and sullen, slumped against the door, his left hand toying with the steering wheel, his right holding a cigarette.

  There being no verbal response, Georgia continued.

  “Sure, sure, big man. You were gonna go out and get yousse’f fixed. An’ that was gonna take care-a us. Well, then, big man, spose you splain to me if you is fixed, then how come I is pregnant!” She almost spat out the final word.

  Jackson shifted uneasily in his seat. Taking a final drag on his cigarette he dropped it over his shoulder to the curb, where the car was parked in front of Services, Inc.

  Jackson’s continued silence encouraged Georgia to resume her harangue.

  “An’ like I say, man, the worsest thing is you lied to me. Man, I know ever’thin’ bout you.” After a slight pause, she added explosively, “exceptin’ for the fack you never got no operation!”

  Jackson lit another cigarette.

  “Baby,�
� he said, at length, “I had to lie to you.”

  “What you mean you had to?” she snapped.

  “Well, you said you were tired of always bein’ the one to take the percautions. You said the pill gave you a headache.” He grew more aggressive. “Then you wouldn’ use the coil. An’ then you claim the foam waren’t no good. Shit, woman, you wouldn’ do nothin’.”

  “That’s when you stepped in, big man. ‘I’m gonna git myse’f fixed,’ you said. You’re so fixed, I’m gittin’ an abortion!”

  “Well, I’m payin’ for it. Don’t ferget that!”

  “You’re payin’ for it! Big deal! Who’s gittin’ it?”

  “But you’re not gettin’ it in some burnt-out buildin’ from some smartass who’s quick with a hanger.”

  “No, one step up. Good ol’ Doc Schmitt.”

  Georgia Thomas had played her trump. Jackson lapsed into silence.

  Georgia consulted her watch.

  “Well, it’s time. You better be waitin’ here when I get outta there, you turkey, or I’ll tell all your other chicks that you ain’t fixed.”

  Jackson winced. That last shot was unfair, he thought. He was faithful to Georgia Thomas, in his fashion.

  Detective Larry Rogers resembled an oversize Sidney Poitier. He and his partner, Detective Donna Osborn, both of Homicide Squad One, had the Garsons’ permission to search their home for leads to their daughter’s abortionist and murderer.

  Osborn, of medium height and build, was going through Diane Garson’s belongings in her bedroom. Rodgers was talking with the Garsons in their living room.

  “So neither of you knew that Diane had been to an abortionist?” asked Rogers.

  Mr. Garson shook his head. Rogers noted that during their conversation, he scarcely ever raised his head.

  “No,” he said, “she never mentioned it.”

  “You see,” said Mrs. Garson quietly, “we are Catholics and abortion is very much against our religion. I am surprised that Diane seemed to have gotten in the family way. But I’m not surprised she didn’t tell us she was thinking of getting an abortion. I’m sure she knew we would have tried to talk her out of it.”

  “She must have been very frightened,” Mr. Garson said softly.

  “If she was pregnant,” said Rogers, “do either of you have any idea who the father might have been?”

  Mr. Garson shook his head, still without looking up.

  “She dated a few boys,” said Mrs. Garson, “none of them seriously … we thought … until this ...” Her voice trailed off.

  Damn, thought Rogers. We’ll probably not get any of them to admit they had intercourse with the girl. Too bad. One of them may have driven her to the abortionist.

  “Mrs. Garson,” said Rogers, “could you give me the names of her boyfriends, and their addresses? And also her girlfriends; she might have confided in one of them. We’re trying to check every possible lead. And so far, there are very few.”

  “Certainly.” As Mrs. Garson rose to comply with the detective’s request, Sergeant Osborn entered the room. She held a small rectangular leather-bound object.

  “Mr. Garson, Mrs. Garson,” she said, “I’ve found Diane’s checkbook. It shows she recently withdrew a hundred and fifty dollars, which left only twenty in her account. Her savings account is empty. Do either of you know of anything she might have spent that amount on within the last few days?”

  Garson shook his head.

  “No,” Mrs. Garson answered. “I know of nothing she bought recently. Why?”

  “Because,” Osborn responded, “one hundred and fifty dollars is a ballpark figure for an abortion in the early stages of pregnancy.”

  Damn, thought Rogers again, that means she didn’t pay by check. So we’ve got no record and no name. There’s got to be a break in this case. There must be; he felt it in his bones, but where was it?

  Leroi Jackson waited a full four hours for Georgia Thomas to emerge from Services, Inc. Now he was sorry he had.

  She had come out barely able to walk.

  Jackson’s first reaction to any stressful situation was to panic. And this emotion did not desert him now.

  Georgia had not spoken a word to him. She sat on the passenger’s side of the front seat, curled into a semifetal position. Occasionally, a low moan escaped her. Jackson noticed blood on her calves.

  His initial instinct was to run from his own car. His second was to drive to a remote field and dump her. His third was to drive her to her home.

  Suddenly, it occurred to him that, for once, this was not his fault. Or at least not by his lights.

  He looked up and saw, as a visiting angel of mercy, the white-on-blue sign indicating the presence of Detroit Memorial Hospital. He knew Detroit General was nearby. He started his car and homed in on the hospital a few blocks away.

  While the now unconscious girl was wheeled into the emergency room, Jackson stayed on the scene and gave the admitting clerk all the details of where Georgia Thomas had been and what had been done to her.

  He was quite proud of himself.

  Rarely had he remained at the scene of any crime. But then rarely had he been innocent of the crime in question.

  The Highland Park A&P was seldom crowded on Saturday mornings.

  Sergeants Osborn and Rogers had informed the store’s manager of their investigation. Osborn was questioning the market’s department heads. The interrogation was being conducted in the large meat packing room. It was cold. The manager had suggested that room not because it was the largest or most suitable, but because of the temperature. He wanted to hurry things along.

  Rogers roamed the aisles talking to employees as he encountered them. He was getting the clear impression that several of the girls knew more than they were willing to say. The old don’t-get-involved syndrome. The kind of attitude that let Kitty Genovese die in New York City these many years ago.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a small form standing just behind him to his left. It was a checkout clerk he had already questioned. He turned as he consulted his note pad, searching for her name.

  Oh, yes, Sylvia Trotter. “What can I do for you, Ms. Trotter?”

  “Well, I been thinkin’,” the small attractive black girl began, hesitantly, “it just ain’t right.”

  “What just ain’t right?”

  “What happened to Diane.”

  “You mean her death?”

  “The whole thing. I mean, Diane, she was a good girl. Not like some of the trash that works here. I can’t even believe Diane went and got pregnant. And all the rest of that stuff, well, it just ain’t fair.”

  “We all agree with you, Ms. Trotter. It just ain’t fair. But what are we going to do about it?”

  “Well, I been thinkin. That old man been gettin’ away with this too long.”

  “What old man?” Rogers scarcely dared to breathe. This was the break; he sensed it.

  “Old Doc Schmitt.”

  “Old Doc Schmitt at Services, Inc.?” Schmitt was infamous. But so far no one had been able to prove he did anything illegal.

  “Yeah, old Doc Schmitt and his Tinkertoy abortions.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He’s the one Diane went to. She told me she was goin’. I tried to talk her out of it, but I couldn’t. She didn’t have much money and she was scared. But it just ain’t right, ’specially with a girl like Diane. Somebody outa put a stop to old Doc Schmitt before he kills us all.”

  “Honey,” said Rogers, “I think you just did.”

  If he’d been able to get off his feet, he would have kicked his heels.

  The atmosphere was particularly dank in the autopsy room of Detroit General Hospital. Two people stood in the room, in the hospital basement, where the naked dead body of Georgia Thomas lay on an aluminum tray.

  “What have we got here, Doc?” asked Lieutenant Bourque.

  “It’s very simple and very sad,” said Dr. Jane Browne, the head pathologist. The small trim blac
k woman looked as if she would be more at home behind a stove than delving into dead bodies. But she was very good at what she did. There were those who said she would one day succeed Wilhelm Moellmann, the White Tornado.

  “Her name was Georgia Thomas,” the doctor began. “She was twenty years old, she was unmarried, and she was pregnant.”

  The lieutenant thought there was a lot of that going around.

  “Yesterday, she had an abortion. The doctor—and I use that title recklessly—while he was performing a dilation and curettage, perforated her uterus with his curette. Peritonitis set in. The peritonitis was untreated and septicemia occurred, probably from an improperly sterilized curette. The complications of both the peritonitis and the blood poisoning killed the poor girl.”

  “Do we have any witnesses?” Bourque asked.

  “Yes, a young man named Jackson brought her in. They have his address at the desk.”

  Bourque began to think the presence of a witness was too good to be true.

  “Do we know the abortionist involved?” asked Bourque.

  “Dr. Robert Schmitt,” she said, with a certain grim satisfaction.

  This is too good to be true, Bourque thought. I’ve been trying to get that old S.O.B. for years.

  A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Telephone call for you, Lieutenant.”

  “Bourque,” he identified.

  “Rogers,” was the reply.

  “Yeah, Larry, what’ve you got?”

  “This is our lucky day. I found a girl at the A&P where the Garson girl worked. She can tie Garson’s abortion to none other than our old friend Doc Schmitt.”

  Bourque whistled.

  “Double lucky day, Larry. I just got done talking with Doc Browne at General. Old Doc Schmitt killed another girl yesterday. And we have a material witness.”

  “Zowie! Why don’t we go over to Doc Schmitt’s office and take a look at his records.”

  “I’ll get a court order and meet you there,” said Bourque.

  “It’s time to round up the bad guys,” said Rogers gleefully.