“In the fall?” I echoed. Had I described Dr. Wright’s body falling over when I found her? I didn’t think so. I frowned suspiciously at him. And then the light dawned.
“You mean when she tripped over one of Señor Mendoza’s pills?”
Blanco nodded.
“I think Dad would have noticed if she’d wounded herself then,” I said.
Blanco pursed his lips. My temper flared. Was his snide expression intended to cast aspersions on Dad’s medical skill? His commitment to the welfare of his patients?
Or was I just reading too much into Blanco’s habitual sour, anxious expression? I took a deep breath and told myself to chill.
“I understand it can be very difficult to diagnose head injuries,” he said. “And Jean—Dr. Wright—she was very resistant to the idea of going to the hospital.”
“In general? Or did Dad suggest it this morning?”
“In general,” he said. “Like so many people who enjoy robust health, she rather looked down on anyone who went running to the doctor with every scratch.”
It sounded like a quote. And he was absently fingering his coat pocket. Was it just my imagination or did I see a small lump there, the size and shape of a roll of Tums?
“And your father did suggest it—both to Dr. Wright and to Mr. Mendoza,” Blanco said. “I got the impression he was disappointed that they both refused.”
“I’m sure he was,” I said. “He loves riding in the ambulance.”
“So his disappointment wasn’t necessarily due to any reservations over their condition?’
“If he’d had any reservations about their condition, he’d have kept nagging till they agreed to go to the hospital,” I said.
“I don’t know about Mr. Mendoza, but Dr. Wright is very strong willed,” he said. “She’s hardly ever sick and when she is, she does her best to carry on as if there were nothing wrong with her.”
I suspected I knew the type—the people who wouldn’t stay home when they caught cold, but insisted on dragging themselves to work, shedding germs and damp tissues everywhere. I’d gone through a phase of being like that myself, until I’d realized that the world could usually manage to get along without me for a day or two. Dr. Wright seemed like the type who had liked feeling indispensable.
“I should have insisted that she go to the hospital,” Blanco said.
“And if you had, would she have listened to you?”
Blanco sighed and shook his head.
“If Dad thought she was injured, either she’d be in the hospital right now or he’d still be following her around, nagging her,” I said. “You have no idea how persistent he can be.”
“Isn’t that possible—for someone to hit their head and feel fine initially and then later have some complication?”
“Like a subdural hematoma,” I said. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible.”
Possible, but I hoped it didn’t turn out to be true. Dad would never forgive himself if he’d failed to hospitalize a patient who turned out to have had a traumatic head injury.
“You should suggest that to Dad and the chief,” I said. “If you haven’t already.”
“It would be so much easier to understand,” he said, “if it were all a horrible accident. I can’t imagine why anyone would actually kill her.”
Clearly he hadn’t been eavesdropping on Ramon and Bronwyn.
“Not everyone agrees with the actions she’s taken on Ramon Soto’s case,” I said.
“But that’s hardly a life-or-death issue,” Blanco said.
“It could be for Ramon,” I said.
“He could do another dissertation, couldn’t he?” Blanco’s expression was puzzled. Maybe tossing off major research projects was a breeze for him.
“He’s spent three years on this one,” I said. “That’s probably an eighth of his entire life. And what’s more, it’s three years of tuition. Unless he’s on full scholarship, Ramon has probably racked up some pretty serious student loans. Another three years of work, more tens of thousands of debt.”
I suddenly realized that I was probably making too good a case for Ramon as a suspect. I could feel Ramon’s pill bottle pressing against my leg.
“And Ramon’s just the one we know about,” I said. “How many other students and former students might be walking around feeling that Dr. Wright ruined their lives?”
“Oh, dear,” he said. “I never considered that. The fact that someone could have some violent, irrational grudge.”
Irrational? Well, it was all in your point of view.