No Cure for Murder Read Free Page B

kitchen into his waiting room. Even in those days, his practice was considered outmoded by most physicians who dissociated work from life. Jacob never made the distinction. If it weren’t for his success, the need for additional space, and the licensing requirements of a medical office, he’d still be living and working at home.
    In the fall of 1965, Jacob purchased a Victorian just two blocks from Brier Hospital. The large first floor served his practice. He rented the second floor to a psychiatrist, Ross Cohen, and a speech pathologist.
    As he drove toward his office, Jacob passed by the Brier Hospital complex, a study in contrasts. Bernard Brier, heir to the Brier Mines near Nevada City, California, lived in a Victorian mansion in the hills above Berkeley. Next to the mansion, he built a convalescent home that became a sanitarium, and finally a private, not for profit community hospital. The modern six-story hospital dwarfed the original Brier Mansion, now on the list of historic California sites.
    Jacob parked in the space labeled, Jacob L. Weizman, M.D., General Practice and entered the house through a side door.
    Margaret Cohen, his office manager smiled at Jacob. “Good morning, Dr. Weizman.”
    Margaret was only his second office manager, having replaced Lola who threatened to kill Jacob if they worked together one more day. Margaret was in her late 60s and widowed. She had grown old with Jacob and the practice.
    “Good morning Maggie, you’re looking particularly fetching this morning.”
    She blushed, pushing back a lock of gray hair from her forehead. It was amazing that at her age, with three children and eight grandchildren, Jacob still made her blush.
    “Let me introduce myself, Dr. Weizman, I think you’re getting forgetful. The name’s Margaret or Marge or Margie.”
    “I could use a little forgetfulness. Did you hear about Shannon Hogan?”
    Margaret nodded. “She was a wonderful woman. I’ll miss her. Why do all the good ones go so soon?”
    “Don’t know, but at least you and I have nothing to worry about.”
    “How’s Pete?”
    Jacob shook his head slowly. “Devastated.”
    “What happened?”
    “Don’t know. They’re doing an autopsy at noon. Just get me out of here on time for a change.”
    “If you stop flapping your gums, you’ll get out of here, no problem.”
    “Flapping my gums...how charming an image, Maggie.”
    “You’d better start flapping your wings, Old Man. You have a busy morning.”
    “Busy. Why do you always keep me busy?”
    “You’re the one who says I shouldn’t turn anyone away...just squeeze them in.”
    “Start noodging me at eleven. If I’m not out of here before noon, then...”
    She slapped a chart into his hands. “It’ll be my pleasure, Dr. Weizman.”
    Jacob finished with his last patient at 11:50. “You’re a good girl, Margaret. Thanks.”
    “Just be back by two, Doctor.”
    Jacob walked under the midday sun to Brier Hospital. He entered through the enormous sliding glass doors into an ornate lobby decorated with paintings and sculptures. Plaques recognizing major contributors lined one entire wall. He took the elevator to the basement and walked into the morgue.
    In his sixty years of practicing medicine, the smell of a morgue—decaying human tissue and formaldehyde, never changed.
    Mark Whitson was a man in his mid fifties, Brier’s chief of Pathology. He looked up as Jacob entered. “You’re on time. I’m just getting started. Is anyone else coming?”
    “Jack Byrnes said he’d be here.”
    “I read the chart. You didn’t expect this death, did you?”
    “I never expect my patients to die, Mark, but they keep disappointing me.”
    “Should I look for anything specific?”
    “Just the usual. Anything that explains a sudden death.”
    Mark wore a green scrub suit, a large white plastic apron, and protective goggles. “Do you want a brain exam too?”
    Jacob nodded.
    Billy Bliss, the diener, or morgue attendant, was as thin and