Free Missing by Jonathan Valin Page A

their version of Mason Greenleaf smacked
heavily of their own biases, it did have the merit of fitting the few
facts that I knew. Like it or not, I couldn’t get around the fact
that Greenleaf had ended up in a gay bar with two gay men.
    As I rode the elevator back down to the Dixie
Terminal lobby, I plotted a bit of strategy to take me through the
rest of that afternoon, until it was late enough to catch the night
help who had served Greenleaf and his friends at Stacie’s bar. I
decided to begin at the beginning, with whatever had been bothering
Greenleaf during the weeks before he disappeared. Besides his
homosexuality, Sullivan had suggested three possible motives: a fear
of contracting AIDS, a terror of harassment by the law, or a serious
problem at work. I had already seen what AIDS could do, and it was
fearsome indeed. But according to Cindy, Greenleaf did not himself
have AIDS, unless of course he’d had his blood tested during the
week before he dropped into limbo. Had he, in fact, been diagnosed
with HIV, it would have been more than enough to start him in
decline. It was the first thing I planned to check when I got back to
the office. The other two possible motives, job- and cop-related
trouble, could be handled by a couple of quick trips. I didn’t have
much hope that any of it would pan out, especially since Cindy had
already told me that Mason wasn’t having a problem at work, and
neither Sullivan nor the cops themselves had said that he was having
any current problems with the law. But without a solid lead, I had to
start somewhere.
    When I got back to my office, I looked up Mason’s
internist, Terry Mulhane, in the Yellow Pages. He had an office on
Auburn Avenue in Corryville. I dialed his number and got a
receptionist who put me on hold. A few moments later she came back
on, full of apologies.
"We’ve got some
sort of flu bug going around, and the phone’s been ringing off the
hook."
    I told her who I was and asked her if it would be
possible to talk to Mulhane about Mason Greenleaf.
    "I can ask," she said dubiously, as if
Greenleaf was a painful subject.
    After a short pause, a man picked up the phone. "This
is Terry Mulhane," he said. "You say your name is Steiner?"
    "Stoner. I’m a private investigator Cindy Dorn
hired to look into Mason Greenleaf ’s death."
    "I thought the police had ruled it a suicide,"
the man said.
    "We’re still looking for a motive."
    Mulhane sighed. "All I can say, and I told Cindy
this at the funeral, is that it wasn’t because of a medical
problem. There was nothing wrong with Mason. I checked him out myself
no more than a few days before he did this thing, and he was fine."
    I felt relieved for Cindy—and for myself—and
curious about what had motivated Greenleaf to go to the doctor before
he died. "Did his complaints have anything to do with AIDS—or
fear of AIDS?"
    "I suppose in some way all of his complaints had
to do with that. Fear of AIDS or fear of retribution—it amounted to
the same thing with Mason, I’ve always thought. What I can tell you
for certain is that he wasn’t sick when he came to see me. He said
he’d been having trouble sleeping. His BP was up. But it was
generally up when he came in for a visit. White jacket BP. There was
nothing about his condition that indicated suicidal depression.
Nothing like that at all."
    I could tell from the tone of his voice that Dr.
Terry Mulhane felt guilty about Mason Greenleaf ’s suicide. As he
had probably supplied Mason with the sleeping pills that he’d used
to kill himself with, I could understand his pain.
    "Was this a regular scheduled visit?" I
asked.
    "No, he just came in for a quick check. Look,
I’ve got a waiting room full of people," the man said, as if
he wanted to be done with the conversation—and the bad feelings it
evoked.
    "I have a few other questions, doctor, if you
could spare some time later today."
    "Under the circumstances, I can hardly say no,"
he said, sounding like no was