“You said murder on the telephone, Detective Oz, notpossiblemurder.” Egeland repositioned his newly polished eyeglasses on his nose. The policeman sitting on the chair in front of him, normally occupied by patients, was wearing clothes of a cut and color Egeland was inclined to associate with Mafia bosses and pimps rather than police officers: a coat that was almost orange, red silk tie and brown shoes that looked a touch too elegant and delicate for a Minneapolis fall. But there had been nothing suspicious about the credentials the man had shown him, and it was hard to imagine someone going to all this trouble just to trick a bit of information out of him about a diabetes diagnosis.
“Since you have Gomez’s label then you already know he’sdiabetic,” said Egeland. “So you really don’t need any confirmation from me.”
“No. But there are a couple of things I’m wondering about. The first is, do you have any information at all about where we can contact Gomez?”
“I have his address in Jordan.”
“Phone number?”
“No.”
“Okay. My second question is, when will he need to renew his prescription?”
“What do you mean?”
“There was one used injector pen left in the box. The usual thing would be to keep the pens in the box and throw it away when the last needle was used, right?”
“It’s perfectly possible.”
“I don’t know if this is the last box, but I know that when he runs out he’s going to have to contact his regular doctor, which is you. So can you check his records on your computer and see when he’s going to need to renew?”
Egeland looked sullenly at Detective Oz. He disliked the man. He had that air of arrogance you find only in someone who doesn’t care if people like him or not.
“The reports from the hospital are pessimistic,” said the police officer. “Deletepossibleand think of this as a murder.”
Egeland thought about it. Weighed that word up against his own vow of confidentiality. Murder. This was the exception. The place where ethical discussions stopped. He sighed, then worked his keyboard as he studied his computer screen.
“He’ll run out in ten days.”
“So before then he’ll turn up here?”
“No, most likely he’ll phone and I’ll email the prescription to a pharmacy close to where he happens to be calling from.”
Egeland watched Detective Oz as he leaned forward and,placing the notepad on the desk as though it were his own, began to write. “Now listen, Egeland. When Gomez contacts you I want you to call MPD on the number I’m writing down here. We want to know the name of the pharmacy where he’s going to be picking up his insulin, and we want you to wait until we’re in place there before you email the prescription. Understood?” Oz tore off the sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk.
Jakob Egeland was astonished. “You want me to cooperate with the police in the arrest of one of my own patients? Don’t you understand—”
“Dr. Egeland, what I want most of all is for you to cooperate with your own conscience and in doing so prevent Tomás Gomez from killing a number of other people. If the moral algebra of that is too complex for you then I can leave and come back with a court order.”
Egeland stared at the number on the sheet of paper as though the figures were an equation that could be solved.
“I’ll do it,” he finally conceded. “But I would like a written judge’s order.”
“Fine, but I can’t promise we can arrange that before Gomez contacts you. So can I still count on your assistance?”
Jakob Egeland nodded.
Detective Oz slipped the notebook back into his pocket and stood up.
“He’s a quiet man,” Egeland said in a faint voice. “But bright. The first time he came to see me I was surprised at how much of medical Latin he understood.”
Oz remained standing.
“So I was surprised again when he was due for his first biannual checkup and he took off his shirt and his upper body was covered in tattoos. You know…gang tattoos.”
Oz sat back down.
“Which gangs?”
