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The Strange Death of Dr. Carew

Mike Rader

    Dr Julius Carew took his time dying. I wanted it to look like a hit-run so I had to wait for him to bleed out. No point doing anything that would tip off the people doing the autopsy. It had to look a textbook death.
    I leaned back against a tree, stared at the moon. That big silver orb had been a co-conspirator, watching on as I drove my rental car out of the shadows at the end of the street, striking Carew before he’d a chance to run clear.
    Five minutes passed. I went over to examine him, carefully avoiding leaving shoeprints in his blood. Carew was still breathing. Blood bubbled from his mouth. When he saw me, he smiled. A crooked smile from halfway to hell. He spoke four words.
    “They’ll hang you, Marston.”
    Then he was gone.
    I waited, but he was dead. I walked back to the rental. The first seeds of panic planted themselves. Carew was dead, that was the easy part. What followed next would be the most difficult part of my plan.
    As I slid behind the wheel and drove off, I started thinking about Carew, the way he’d been. Almost like brothers at medical school together. But it was his fault that he’d taken to gambling, and gambling had driven his greed, and greed had driven him to blackmail.
    Was it really ten years ago that I’d botched an operation? Carew was assisting me. He was the only one in the theater who’d seen my fatal incision. The patient died. Afterward, my other colleagues had commiserated with me. But not Carew. He told me, “Your career is over, Marston. You’ll never be able to work as a surgeon again.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” I snapped.
    He went to work in another hospital soon after. A year later, he came to see me, alcohol on his breath.
    “Marston, I need five grand in a hurry.”
    “Blackmail? That’s not very ethical, Dr Carew.”
    Of course I paid him.
    A year went by. I forgot all about Carew. Until I was heading off on my honeymoon, and he showed up again, unshaven, red-eyed. “I need your help, my friend. Ten grand.”
    “That’s out of the question.”
    “Ten grand. And I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”
    I paid the ten grand in cash the next morning while my new wife waited around the corner at the hotel. She knew nothing about Carew blackmailing me; I said I was going to help an old friend with a loan.
    “That’s the end of it, Carew,” I swore, handing over the envelope of money.
    “I know. You have my word.”
    But it wasn’t over. As I was to learn, it never was with blackmailers. Carew came back two weeks ago. This time he demanded twenty grand. I arranged to pay him, telling myself it would be the last time. “I’ll meet you at the park entrance next Tuesday night at nine. Just wait there.”
    “That’s almost a week away. Why not sooner? The people I owe don’t like waiting.”
    “I’ve got to cancel some bonds. I don’t have 20K lying around.”
    He agreed.
    It was time to put an end to the blackmail. I made my preparations carefully. Murder was a big step. Maybe, on the night, I wouldn’t have the guts to go ahead. But when I saw him waiting by the gate, I made my final decision. I simply accelerated my rental car, bore down on him, felt the car shudder as it slammed into his body.
    “Well, Dr Carew,” I said aloud. “Not another cent.”

....

    I drove the rental to the hilltop overlooking the lake and released the handbrake, leaping clear as it rolled forward and settled beneath the water. I knew the front of the car was damaged when it hit Carew, but people would put it down to the impact of hitting the water. Anyway, the water would wash off all traces of his blood and flesh. And with luck, maybe it would never be found.
    I knew I was in the clear. I’d paid cash to hire the car, and used the name and documents of a deceased patient. I hurried back to where I’d parked my own car. It was time to get on with my life again.

....

    I didn’t expect the police to call. But they did. The next morning.
    “Dr Marston, one of your colleagues, Dr Carew, died last night, and we have a couple of questions.”
    “He was hardly a colleague,” I informed them lightly. “Haven’t seen him for years. Was he ill?”
    The detective ignored my question. Fortescue, his name was. He opened his wallet and produced a small handwritten note. “Well, that’s odd. According to Dr Carew, he was going to see you last night.”
    I felt the panic rise. My mouth tasted fear. But I covered it with a broad smile. “I don’t understand why he’d say that. I was working last night.”
    “According to this note he said he was meeting you. He wrote here, ‘Should anyone find this note, it means I have been murdered by Dr Marston.’”
    “Ludicrous,” I snapped, fighting back against a sudden trapped feeling. “Why on earth would I murder Dr Carew?”
    “That’s what we’d like to know,” Fortescue said.
    “Look, Carew and I had a falling out years ago. He gambled. Became an alcoholic. I didn’t approve. It was affecting his work. Maybe he was jealous of my success.”
    “But he seemed to think you wanted him dead.”
    “But I didn’t.”
    “Then why did he write this note?”
    “Because he wasn’t a very stable person. Gamblers and alcoholics are like that, aren’t they?”
    “Are they?”
    “They’re under great pressure, detective. It must be terrible for them. Who knows how their addiction could affect their minds?”
    The detectives went away. I poured a long drink. My hand was trembling. Why had Carew written that note? I told him he could have the money. I gave him no reason to think his life was in danger. Perhaps he just sensed he’d pushed me too far. Maybe he wanted some kind of insurance. I remembered his dying words. “They’ll hang you, Marston.”

....

    A couple days later, the detectives were back.
    “We found a car in a lake near where your colleague died,” Fortescue told me. “The car that ran him down. We found it.”
    “Good. Then you can find the person who killed him.” Then I had an inspiration. “I told you that Carew was a gambler, didn’t I? My guess is that he owed money to the kind of people who don’t like waiting. They got impatient and killed him when he couldn’t pay up.”
    Fortescue gave me a hooded look. “That’s an excellent thought, Dr Marston. Especially since the car had been wiped clean of fingerprints.”
    I relaxed. “Well, there you are. Crime solved.”
    “Except for the fact it was a rental car, Dr Marston. It was leased to a man who died two weeks ago. A man who was one of your patients.”
    My palms were sweaty. I felt as though I’d been struck a physical blow. “Stop this!” I shouted. “What are you trying to do? None of this has anything to do with me.”
    “I can see we’ve upset you, sir.”
    “I don’t like being questioned about a murder I didn’t commit. I’m going to call my attorney.”
    “Why would you do that? Nobody’s accused you of anything, sir. We’re just asking questions, trying to throw some light on the matter.” He stopped for a moment, as if he was looking for something to say. Then he went on, “It does seem such a coincidence, Dr Marston. First your colleague dies. Run down by one of your deceased patients.” He paused. “And then there’s this other matter ...”
    He signaled. His partner stepped forward and held up a striped plastic shopping bag. I recognized it of course. A sick stabbing sensation attacked the pit of my stomach.
    “This bag’s got twenty thousand dollars inside. We obtained a search warrant, Dr Marston. We found it in your car downstairs.”
    I could feel the cold rush of death in my lungs, charging up my throat.
    “It’s not mine,” I argued. “Somebody obviously put it there! Somebody is trying to set me up!”
    “I did consider that for a moment. However —” Fortescue opened the bag and let me see inside — “It’s still got the bank receipt in there with the money. Showing you withdrew it from your account on the day of Dr Carew’s murder.” He had his handcuffs ready. “It’s not very often that murderers have money to throw away.”

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