Free Love Gone Mad by Mark Rubinstein Page A

death.
    Adrian turns, leaves, and slams the door shut.
    He whips out his cell phone.
    “W ell, it wasn’t a burglary,” says Sergeant Ford. “I can say that, even though the photo’s missing.” Ford’s a military type—reminds Adrian of a marine drill instructor—has a slate-gray crew cut, is steep-jawed, steely eyed, and wears a tailored uniform to fit his wiry physique. Right out of Central Casting. His partner, Moore, a balding giant, must tip the scale at three hundred pounds—looks like he could wrestle in the WWE.
    “You think it might’ve been kids playing a prank?” Adrian asks.
    “Nope,” Ford says. “I’ve been a Simpson cop for fifteen years … seen plenty of teen mischief. They leave empty beer bottles and pizza boxes and toss the furniture.” Ford rubs his chin and shakes his head. “And they piss all over the place and take a dump … They leave a little souvenir for the homeowner.” Ford shakes his head. “But that bird? It’s a whole other thing, Doc.”
    “I’ll smell it for a long time,” Moore says, his salami-sized hand rubbing his bulbous nose. The junior cop reminds Adrian of Shrek.
    “Doc, you have any enemies?” Ford asks.
    “No.” Adrian’s hands feel weak.
    “Because this guy left you a message …”
    Adrian nods. A pang of fear stabs his chest.
    “What kind of message, Sarge?” Moore asks.
    “Maybe this guy blames the doc for screwin’ up his life. Could be a warning …”
    “That goddamned crow,” says Moore.
    “By the way, that’s a raven,” corrects Ford. “They’re bigger’n crows. Not that it makes a helluva lot of difference. Though, maybe it does. Remember that poem ‘The Raven’? What is it the raven says … nevermore ?”
    “Nevermore?” Moore asks.
    “Maybe I’m just overthinkin’ a nutcase,” says Ford. “It could just be some road kill he found. Or maybe the guy’s an outdoor type, killed it with a shotgun.”
    A shotgun …
    Adrian’s reminded of King’s Corner, the drive-by shooting.
    Adrian? Do I know you?
    I’ll be back …
    Adrian smells the smoke, hears the sizzling wires, and sees the shattered glass.
    “That bird’s been dead awhile,” Ford says. “It’s filled with maggots. He probably carried the thing in a plastic bag.”
    “Son of a bitch,” says Moore.
    “You sure nobody’s got it in for you, Doc?”
    “I don’t have a clue,” Adrian says, as his thoughts scan colleagues, friends, and casual acquaintances—people past and present.
    “Some patient who thinks you ruined his life?”
    Adrian shakes his head.
    “You have any arguments? Some jerk at a supermarket or a gas station … anything?”
    He describes the incident on the Post Road.
    “Look, Doc … maybe there’s some connection between the Post Road thing and this. Maybe you oughta talk with Chief Mulvaney over in Eastport. He’s got way more resources than we do. We’re a small town, only six thousand people.”
    “Isn’t this out of his jurisdiction?”
    “Not when you got run off the road. There could be a connection.”
    “The chief’s a friend of mine,” Adrian says. “I called him about the Post Road thing.”
    “What about the photo?” asks Moore.
    “Mom and Dad … damned if I know,” says Ford. “And that milk carton … emptied out. It’s pretty strange.” At the door, he turns to Adrian. “Doc … I have a feeling someone’s got it in for you.”
    Adrian feels a chill in his heart.

Nine
    “A dead bird …?” Megan asks. “I can’t believe it.” Her voice is trembling. “Do you think it’s some angry patient, like the cop said?”
    “Megan, I’ve gone through the hospital log … every case over the last year. There’re no unexpected bad outcomes. No threatened malpractice suits. There’s nothing.”
    “What about people at work?”
    “No problems. It’s a great team.”
    “And the neighbors …?”
    “The Gibsons? Elderly people with a home health aide. They can barely walk.”
    “What about other