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79
Edna called Marta early Saturday morning. “Wally is still sleeping, so we’re getting a late start,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. What she really wanted to do was to tell Marta not to worry about coming over to say good-bye, but she knew that would sound terrible, especially after putting her off last night.
“I’ll make a coffee ring,” Marta said. “I know how Wally enjoys my baking. Just give me a ting-a-ling when you’re ready, and I’ll be over.”
For the next couple of hours, Marta fretted over Edna’s phone call. She strongly suspected that there was trouble at Edna’s house. The stress in her friend’s voice this morning was even deeper than it had been last evening. Then too, she’d noticed Edna’s car backing out of the driveway last night, just before nine, and she knew that was unusual as well. Edna hated night driving. Yes, something definitely was wrong.
Maybe it will be good for them to get away, Marta decided. March is such a dreary month, and there’s so much bad news around-that nurse being murdered in Rowayton; Molly Lasch probably going back to prison, not that she shouldn’t be restrained somewhere, of course; Mrs. Colbert and her daughter Natasha, both dead within hours of each other.
At 11:30, Edna phoned. “We’re ready for that coffee cake,” she said.
“I’m on my way,” Marta replied with relief.
From the moment she walked in the door of Edna’s kitchen, Marta could see that she’d been right about trouble-and it wasn’t over. It was clear that Wally was in one of his really dark moods. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets; he looked disheveled; he kept casting angry glances at his mother.
“Wally, look what I have for you,” Marta told him. She unwrapped the cake from the aluminum foil. “It’s still warm.”
He ignored her. “Mom, I just wanted to talk to her. What’s so bad about that?”
Oh dear, Marta thought. I bet he went over to see Molly Lasch on his own.
“I didn’t go inside. I just looked in. I didn’t go inside the other time either. You don’t believe me, do you?”
Marta caught the frightened expression on Edna’s face. I shouldn’t have come, she thought, glancing around as if looking for some means of escape. Edna hates for me to be around when Wally gets upset. Sometimes his tongue runs away with him. Why, I’ve even heard him insult her.
“Wally dear, have some of Marta’s cake,” Edna pleaded.
“Molly did the same thing last night she did last time I was there, Mom. She turned on the light and got scared. But I don’t know why she was scared last night. Dr. Lasch wasn’t all bloody the way he was last time.”
Marta put down the knife she was about to use to cut the coffee cake. She turned to her friend of thirty years. “What is Wally talking about, Edna?” she asked quietly, pieces of a very confused puzzle slowly falling together in her mind.
Edna burst into tears. “He’s not talking about anything. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Tell Marta that, Wally. Tell her. You’re not talking about anything!”
The outburst obviously startled him. “I’m sorry, Mom. I promise I won’t talk about Molly anymore.”
“No, Wally, I think you should,” Marta said. “Edna, if Wally knows anything about Dr. Lasch’s death, son or no son, you have to take him to the police and let them hear what it is. You can’t let that woman go before that parole board and be sent back to prison if she didn’t kill her husband.”
“Wally, get the bags out of the car.” Edna Barry’s voice sounded flat and resigned as she looked at Marta with pleading eyes. “I know you’re right. I have to let Wally talk to the police, but just give me till Monday morning. I have to have a lawyer with me to protect him.”
“If Molly Lasch spent five and a half years in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, and you knew it, I would think you need a lawyer to protect yourself,” Marta said, sadness and distress in her eyes as she looked across the kitchen at her friend.
There was silence between them, as Wally noisily munched a piece of Marta’s coffee cake.
80
Fran spent the rest of Saturday morning studying the articles that Dr. Adrian Lowe had either written, or which had been written about him. He makes Dr. Kevorkian look like another Albert Schweitzer, she thought. Lowe’s philosophy was starkly simple: Thanks to advances in medicine, too many people were living for too long. The elderly were consuming financial and medical resources better used elsewhere.
One article stated that much of the elaborate treatment of chronically ill people was wasteful and u
Another article expounded Lowe’s theory that the incompetent were a useful-perhaps even necessary-resource for the study of new or untested drugs. They might be helped dramatically by the drug, or they might die. In either case they would be better off.
Following his career through the various articles, Fran learned that Lowe became so outrageous and outspoken in his theories that he was fired from the medical school where he taught and was even condemned by the AMA. At one point he was indicted for deliberately killing three patients, but the case wasn’t proved. After that, he dropped out of sight. Fran finally remembered where she had heard of him before-he had been discussed in an ethics course she had taken in college.
Did Gary Lasch set up Dr. Lowe in West Redding so that he could carry on his scientific research there? Did he also bring Lowe’s other dedicated student, Peter Black, to Lasch Hospital to help him conduct experiments on unsuspecting patients there? It was certainly begi
It also makes sense, Fran thought. It makes terrible, logical, brutal sense. This evening, God willing, I’ll have proof. If this crazy doctor wants his so-called accomplishments known, then he’s come to the right person. Boy, let me at him! I can’t wait.
Her unidentified caller had given her specific directions to Lowe’s location. West Redding was about sixty miles north of Manhattan. I’m glad it’s March, not August, Fran thought. She knew the Merritt Parkway in the summer could be packed with vacationers on their way to the beaches. Even so, she intended to leave with plenty of time to spare. She was due there at seven o’clock-well, it couldn’t come soon enough for her.
She debated about how much recording equipment to take with her. She didn’t want to scare Lowe into clamming up about his work, but she prayed he would let her tape the interview, perhaps even videotape it. In the end she decided to bring both her recorder and video camera. Both would easily fit into her shoulder bag, along with her notebook.
The articles written about Lowe after he had granted interviews were both specific and expansive. I hope he still likes to let everyone in on his theories, Fran thought.
At two o’clock she had finished preparing the questions she wanted to put to Dr. Lowe. By a quarter of three, she was showered and dressed. She called Molly to check on her and was alarmed by the despondent tone of her voice.
“Are you alone, Molly?”
“Yes.”
“Is anyone coming over?”
“Philip called. He wanted to come up tonight, but Je
“Molly, I can’t talk about it yet, but a lot is happening, and it’s all promising. It looks like I’m onto something that may be of real help to you and to Philip in handling your case.”
“Nothing like good news, is there, Fran?”
“Molly, I have to be in Co