Lethal Practice Read Online Free Page A

around. “And where are his clothes?”
    I shrugged. Watts had noticed the most obvious inconsistency, which I’d completely missed.
    “Probably far from here,” he added, “and I bet they’re covered with blood, maybe even burned already.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean he was attacked, and broke off the syringe either thrashing to death or struggling when he was stabbed. Blood must have been flying everywhere, all over his clothes, the walls, ceiling, and floor.”
    Watts suddenly bent over the bloated belly and sniffed. “His chest’s been washed clean with rubbing alcohol.”
    I resisted sniffing for a telltale aroma of isopropyl.
    “That’s why the heat was up,” he went on. “To dry him off.” He shook his head. “No, he wasn’t murdered here.” He glanced around the room. “But I have a good idea how to find out where.”
    So did I. Kingsly’s lonely killing ground would be in whatever part of the hospital the walls and ceiling had gotten an unscheduled cleaning.
    “Has anyone called his wife?” Watts suddenly asked. “Or has she called here looking for him?”
    I’d forgotten the long-suffering Mrs. Kingsly.
    “I’ll phone her!” It was Hurst’s voice, calling to us from the chair outside, where we had left him. He began to straighten from the slouch he had sunk into when we’d deposited him there, and started to take back the control he’d lost.
    “Thanks, Paul,” said Watts.
    “I’ll do it from my office.” He left to perform what was probably the worst job in medicine.
    Madelaine arrived an instant later with a silver tea set and an array of china cups. No Styrofoam here.
    “Where did he go?” she demanded protectively. To her. Watts and I were now guilty of even more than insurrection: we’d shooed away her brother from her custody. Moreover, we appeared to be about to steal his tea. She didn’t offer us any.
    But Watts undid her with his most lethal weapon—blarney. “Why, Miss Hurst, you always know the perfect thing to do in any situation.”
    Watts had suggested the tea, but he made it seem as if it had been her idea, and she beamed. He helped himself, sighed in appreciation at his first sip, and added, “I don’t know what this hospital would do without you and your brother.”
    Only Watts had the skill to make this crap work. If I’d tried the same line, she’d have started counting the silverware. Instead, her protestations begged Watts for more of his nonsense. I had to look away and chew my lip to keep a smile off my face.
    ‘Tea, Dr. Garnet?” asked Watts, seeing my difficulty and cocking his head away from Madelaine so only I could catch his smug grin.
    As I took the cup, I glanced through the reception area window. Cop cars pulled up. Behind me Watts chatted quietly with Madelaine. Bless him. Sometimes celebrating the absurd was the only way through the pain and dying.
    Watts was a remarkable man, I thought. He enjoyed his role as the final diagnostician and keeper of clinical truths. His word on each and every physician’s performance was absolute. Some saw him as a teacher and guide. Others hated and feared his verdicts on their competence and character. The pathologist is key in every hospital in the world, and if he or she is a jerk, stay away, because it means incompetents in the place can get by with murder—and probably do. Have a good pathologist in the house and dangerous fools don’t last long. Borderline incompetents are more subtle creatures, however. Never blatant enough to lose their licenses, they can weave and bob for years. Sometimes nurses can keep very sick patients out of their grasp by unofficially suggesting other doctors, but it’s a good pathologist who really keeps those incompetents in check; they can’t hide their fatal mistakes from him. And Watts was the best.
    Hurst, Watts, and I looked up at the commotion coming from the entrance to the hallway. Two so-called plainclothes detectives stood at the open door. They were