Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,66
the bottle on the sink.
He came back to the doctor, who was in the same position, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” Steve said, knowing it wasn’t. He pushed the toilet paper into Phillips’s hands. The doctor used it to dab his eyes.
His breathing started to normalize. “I never thought,” he said.
“Take it easy. Just tell me from the top what happened.”
“I was a good doctor,” he said to his hands, now open in his lap. “A very good doctor.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“You don’t know. Anything.”
“Why don’t you tell me?” If he wanted to lay out his life story, Steve wouldn’t mind. As long as he got to the important stuff.
But the doctor said nothing, seeming to drift back into a fog.
“Doctor,” Steve said, “do you know Edward Hendrickson?”
That blasted him out of the fog, and his wide eyes were the headlights. “Ed. You talked to Ed?”
“Yes.”
“Oh dear God.” His head slumped.
“Easy.”
“I need to clean up.” He touched his chest with both hands. “I’m a mess.”
“I don’t care.”
“I care. Get me up.”
Steve took hold of one of his skinny arms and lifted him. What was left of him anyway.
“Where’s the bottle?” he said.
“Look, let’s get some food and coffee in you. My car’s out front.”
“I feel sick.”
Great.
“Sit,” Phillips said. “Wait.” He trundled toward the bathroom.
As Steve waited he almost said a prayer. He thought that the good doctor was what he, Steve Conroy, could very easily become if he ever lost it to blow again. He appreciated the warning.
He wanted to get out of this hole as soon as he could. Breathe some air. Maybe drop the doc off at the nearest hospital and say, Here, do something.
There was a car crash on the TV. No sound, just a flaming car and people running around. They were trying to get a guy out before he burned up.
Steve heard a door slam.
He turned around and saw the only two interior doors—one to the bathroom, one to what must be the bedroom—wide open. The doctor certainly hadn’t gone out the front door.
Then it hit him. What he’d heard was a gunshot.
He ran to the bathroom.
Phillips was there, his frail body motionless, blood oozing out of the back of his head.
There’d be no doctor for Phillips. There’d be nothing, ever again.
47
The detective looked about twelve years old. “You just found him there?” he said.
Steve was surprised the cop’s voice didn’t crack. “I heard the shot, yeah,” Steve said. “He wasn’t going anywhere.”
Nearly an hour had gone by since Steve had called 9-1-1. Now the local homicide team was on the job. They were in front of the doctor’s hovel, and Steve could hear the landlord screaming from inside his house. A few epithets and a couple of threats. Toward him.
“Now why is he so upset?” the detective, named Ross, asked.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Steve said.
“I’m asking you, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. I told you what happened. I told you twice.”
“I’m still not getting why you came to see Dr. Phillips.”
“Toothache.”
“He was a medical doctor.”
“I misread the ad.”
Ross heaved breath. He had ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. “You’re not helping yourself here. You think being an LA lawyer is going to do you any good, you got another—”
“I don’t have to help myself. I don’t have to answer your questions, either. I had a personal matter to discuss with Dr. Phillips and I want it to remain personal. All I can tell you is that I came here, I started to talk things over with him, and he went in the back and shot himself.”
“You must have upset him.”
“He was already upset. The man was a drunk.”
“Drunks don’t always shoot themselves.”
“This one did.”
“And you have no idea why?”
“There are a million reasons for people to cash it in. I’m sure if you dig around you’ll find out whatever you need to know. It was a suicide, not a homicide, all right? There’s nothing criminal here.”
“That’s what I have to find out.”
“I’m telling you. There’s only two people who know what happened in there, and one of them’s dead. The other one is right here and he’s telling you what happened. All right? Are we done here?”
“Mr. Conroy, you seem a little anxious to leave.”
Steve handed the man his card. “I’ll be happy to do up a formal statement and sign it under penalty of perjury. I’ll fax it to your office. Okay?”
“I may have some more questions for you.”
“I always like to help the local constabulary.”
“Excuse