The Doctor Who Was Afraid to Remember
Chapter 03 - The Doctor Who Was Afraid to Remember
Marco gave up the phone.
Reluctantly.
That was enough to change the room.
Matteo passed it to a guard outside the archive and ordered every call copied before the device was returned.
Marco’s face hardened.
“I’ve served this family twenty-two years.”
Matteo looked at him.
“That is not evidence.”
Clara almost approved aloud.
Lorenzo did.
A rough sound that might have been laughter escaped him.
Everyone looked.
The old man’s mouth moved.
“Good.”
Matteo stared at his father.
Second clear word directed at him.
Good.
It hit harder than affection would have.
Marco was restricted to the west guest wing pending review.
Not beaten.
Not disappeared.
Clara noticed Matteo choosing that.
Maybe Lorenzo did too.
The missing Enzo medical folder remained missing.
But Clara had one thing the archive could not lose.
Electronic pharmacy history.
She sat at the dining-room table with a laptop and three years of medication logs.
Matteo stood behind her.
Too close.
“Stop breathing on my neck.”
He stepped back.
“Sorry.”
“Do you always supervise people by looming?”
“Yes.”
“Unpleasant.”
“I have heard.”
“Not enough.”
She scrolled.
Haloperidol injections.
Not daily.
Clusters.
Every time Lorenzo was described as agitated after trying to leave the estate or refusing medication.
Clara frowned.
“These doses are high for an eighty-year-old.”
“How high?”
“Not necessarily illegal. But enough to increase sedation, rigidity, swallowing problems, confusion.”
“Speech?”
“If someone already had expressive aphasia after a stroke, yes. It could make communication harder.”
Matteo looked toward the door.
“So they silenced him with medication.”
Clara shook her head.
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“Clara.”
“Do not simplify it.”
She turned the screen.
“He had a stroke.”
“Yes.”
“He likely had real expressive difficulty.”
“Yes.”
“He also may have been over-sedated.”
“Yes.”
“And at some point he may have chosen not to speak because he did not trust the people around him.”
Matteo stared.
“That is worse.”
“Usually.”
Another pattern appeared.
Every cluster of medication orders came from Dr. Maria D’Angelo.
Except four.
Clara leaned closer.
“Who is J. Moretti, MD?”
Matteo frowned.
“No one.”
“Family physician?”
“No Moretti physician living.”
The electronic signature read:
J. MORETTI — CONSULTING AUTHORIZATION.
“Could be an alias.”
Matteo called the estate IT manager.
The account had been created three years ago.
Authorized from Marco Bellini’s terminal.
Matteo’s face became stone.
“Why would my security chief create a doctor credential?”
Clara said, “Maybe he didn’t.”
Matteo looked at her.
She pointed at the log.
“Request was submitted from his terminal. That proves a terminal. Not a hand.”
“You enjoy uncertainty.”
“I enjoy not sending innocent people to basements.”
The sentence landed too close to his world.
He looked away.
“Fair.”
They located Dr. D’Angelo through the medical board.
Not Boston.
No active practice.
Her license had been voluntarily surrendered nine months earlier after a prescribing investigation unrelated to Lorenzo.
Matteo called her attorney.
No response.
Clara found a personal number through a nursing network.
She called herself.
A woman answered.
Older voice.
Guarded.
“Dr. D’Angelo?”
Silence.
“Who is this?”
“Clara Jenkins. I’m caring for Lorenzo Moretti.”
The line nearly went dead.
“Please.”
Clara lowered her voice.
“I’m not calling for the family.”
Matteo looked at her.
She ignored him.
“I’m calling because his medication record has your name all over it and he spoke today.”
Silence.
Then:
“He spoke?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Enough to make people nervous.”
Dr. D’Angelo breathed out.
“Where is Marco?”
“Restricted.”
Another silence.
“Good.”
Clara looked at Matteo.
“What happened three years ago?”
The doctor’s voice changed.
“I made mistakes.”
“What kind?”
“I believed his behavior was psychiatric.”
“After the stroke.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Marco and Enzo said he had become paranoid.”
Matteo mouthed:
Enzo?
Clara raised a hand.
“Enzo Moretti was alive.”
“Yes.”
“Did you meet him?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Three years ago. At the estate.”
“Did Lorenzo see him?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He became extremely agitated.”
“Because his dead brother walked into the room.”
The doctor was silent.
“Did anyone tell you Enzo was supposed to be dead?”
“No.”
Of course.
A clinician brought into a criminal family with partial information.
Dangerous.
Dr. D’Angelo continued.
“Lorenzo tried to leave.”
“And?”
“Security restrained him.”
“Who?”
“Marco and two men.”
“Then?”
“I gave medication.”
“Haloperidol.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Five milligrams IM.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Heavy for an old man.
Not impossible.
But concerning.
“Then it became a pattern.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He kept accusing people of killing Teresa.”
Matteo’s face changed.
“He told you.”
Clara put the phone on speaker.
Dr. D’Angelo heard the male voice.
“Matteo?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I thought your father was delusional.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“Was he?”
Clara looked at him.
He stopped himself.
Dr. D’Angelo continued.
“Teresa died in the hospital, not at the estate.”
“Yes.”
“I reviewed her chart later.”
“Why?”
“Lorenzo kept saying pill.”
Clara looked at Matteo.
Same word.
“What did you find?”
“Her digoxin level was extremely high.”
Clara sat straighter.
“Was she prescribed digoxin?”
“Yes. Low dose.”
“So overdose was possible.”
“Yes.”
“Accidental?”
“I thought so.”
“You changed your mind.”
Dr. D’Angelo exhaled.
“There was one lab result missing from the final archive.”
“What?”
“A second digoxin level.”
“Higher?”
“Much.”
Matteo went pale.
“Who removed it?”
“I don’t know.”
Clara almost corrected her.
The doctor added:
“The audit trail pointed to a physician login that should not exist.”
“J. Moretti.”
Silence.
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you report it?”
“I did.”
“To who?”
“Marco.”
The room went still.
Matteo’s face changed.
“He told you?”
“That IT would investigate.”
“And?”
“Three days later my malpractice carrier received anonymous complaints about my prescribing.”
“So you backed off.”
“Yes.”
The doctor’s voice broke.
“I was afraid.”
Clean.
No heroism.
Clara respected the truth.
“Did you keep copies?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
Matteo leaned forward.
“Where?”
“I will not give them to you.”
He stopped.
Dr. D’Angelo continued.
“I’ll give them to police or a lawyer not employed by your family.”
Clara smiled faintly.
“Good.”
Matteo looked offended.
“Very good,” Clara added.
They arranged independent counsel.
After the call, Matteo stood by the window.
“My mother may have been poisoned.”
“Yes.”
“My father tried to tell everyone.”
“Yes.”
“We drugged him.”
Clara shook her head.
“Your staff and doctor medicated him.”
“I allowed the system.”
“Different.”
“Not enough.”
She looked at him.
That answer mattered.
Then Lorenzo’s call bell rang upstairs.
They found him agitated, pointing toward the rain.
His wheelchair faced the glass.
Clara crouched.
“What?”
He forced out:
“Car.”
“What car?”
“Black.”
Matteo looked outside.
Nothing.
Lorenzo pointed toward the side drive.
Then:
“Enzo.”
Matteo’s face hardened.
“Here?”
One blink.
Clara watched Lorenzo.
His eyes were not confused.
They were remembering.
“Not now,” she said.
One blink.
“Yes.”
“Three years ago?”
One blink.
He lifted his hand and made a turning motion.
“Car. Black. Enzo.”
Matteo looked at him.
“Who drove?”
Lorenzo’s mouth trembled.
“Mar…”
Again.
Clara pulled out family photographs.
Marco Bellini.
Dr. Maria D’Angelo.
Lorenzo shook his head at both.
Then his eyes moved to a photograph on the dresser.
Matteo at an awards dinner.
Beside him stood a woman in a black dress.
Mid-forties.
Elegant.
Dark hair.
Matteo’s godmother and family attorney.
Marina Costello.
Lorenzo pointed.
“Marina.”
Matteo went completely still.
Marina Costello had managed every Moretti trust, medical directive, and estate document for fifteen years.
Including Lorenzo’s power of attorney.
May you like
And according to the old man everybody called confused—
she had been driving the car that brought a dead man home.
