Chapter I.XII
Vitaly Ivolginsky
Always Visible (Another Prayer for the Dying Horror Genre)
First Act — Tempo De Construção Novamente
Chapter I.XII
Galbraith, who was a little reassured by the doctor’s remark, asked what happened next.
“And then the gynaecologist told Maurice that they would put the young lady in the ward for now and begin preparations for the operation to remove… Oh, forgot this medical term… But I remember that, according to Maurice, that man had never encountered anything like this before in his entire career”.
“A rather interesting story…”, Galbraith nodded
“I have not yet finished”, Matt called his interlocutor’s attention. “Then Maurice, leaving his home phone number to the gynaecologist, left the hospital and went home. This was the day before yesterday”.
“Okay, so what happened next?”
“And yesterday they called him late in the evening – they said that they had already looked at everything and prepared for everything, and tomorrow they would perform a hysterectomy on the little girl”.
“What exactly do they do?”, the inspector didn’t understand
Galbraith thought that he had come across such a word before, but forgot its meaning.
“Uterus removal”, Matt said as he ran off.
“My God!”, having shouted this, the inspector grabbed his head.
“I am also shocked by it too, like you”, the doctor began to calm him down. “Even at twenty-eight years old, such an operation is already a serious step, but here is a little child…”
“Why they decided to do it?”, Galbraith, with a fire in his eyes, jumped up from the bench.
“All right, bud, cool”, Matt tried to pacify the interlocutor, but he did not let up.
“Tell me why?”, he exclaimed almost theatrically
“Well… Maurice told me that this thing – I don’t remember the term – almost completely grown into the endometrium, and without complete removal of the uterus, the gynaecologist saw no other way to help the young lady”.
The explosion of despair gave way to despondency – Galbraith sank back onto the bench next to Matt.
“And this morning Maurice received a call that the girl, how should I put it…”, the doctor began to look for words.
“Don’t hesitate, please…”, muttered the inspector
“In general, staff of Randall Children’s Hospital said that her pulse had stopped being palpable”.
There was silence, broken only by Matt’s noisy breathing. Galbraith felt his own heart ready to jump out of his chest.
“What was the name of the gynaecologist who led the operation?”, he asked after a minute.
A plan for further action began to emerge in his mind.
“I recall Maurice saying it was…”, the doctor began to remember
“Name, bud, I need a name!”, Galbraith yelled at the pink-cheeked man.
“How you much hotter…”, Matt pulled away from him. “So, he told me that the gynaecologist introduced himself to him as doctor Baselard”.
Galbraith immediately jumped up from the bench and rushed to the police department. Matt shouted something after him, but the wind in his ears prevented the inspector from hearing his words. Once inside the building itself, he slowed down and, without greeting anyone, went up to the second floor to his office. There he sat down at the table and, moving the telephone closer to him, dialed the helpline number. When the receiver said “Hello, I’m listening to you”, Galbraith, trying to give his voice as calm an intonation as possible, asked to be told the telephone number of the management of Randall Children’s Hospital. The response he received was “Wait a couple of minutes”.
The inspector put the phone down next to the machine and began looking for paper. When he finally put a blank sheet in front of him and took a pen from his desk drawer, “Write” came from the receiver. Holding it with his shoulder, Galbraith grabbed a pen and wrote down the hospital’s telephone number on paper under dictation. Thanking him, he ended the call and, running his eyes over the sheet, dialed the number. They answered the phone almost immediately.
“You called Randall Children’s Hospital”, Galbraith heard a melodic female voice.
“Hello, could you give me doctor Baselard’s home address?”
“We do not disclose personal…”, the callgirl started, but the inspector interrupted her.
“I’m from Portland Police Bureau”, he said dryly.
“Okay, hold the line”, answered a female voice.
Galbraith had to wait a few minutes. Finally, the callgirl returned and began to dictate the address to him – the inspector barely had time to grab the pen. When he wrote the last letter, a female voice asked him “Anything else?”, but he just said goodbye and ended the call. “Well, wonderful”, he thought, “Here it is, the address of the man who killed an innocent child with his own hands”. Galbraith, having re-read the paper several times, folded it four times and put it in the same pocket where the photograph of three happy people lay.
Galbraith left the police department building. He glanced at the bench by the post – Matt had already left somewhere. This doesn’t matter at all, he thought. A yellow car with a characteristic checkerboard pattern on the door was driving towards him. The inspector stopped the taxi and, having told the driver the street name and house number, sat back in the back seat. He began to figure that doctor Baselard was probably still in the hospital now, so there was a high probability that he might not find him at home. Galbraith wasn’t sure what he really wanted to get out of this visit, but he was firmly convinced that he needed to cross paths with this man before the case of “The Death of Delia Yonce under The X-acto knife” got to court of justice, so there was no time to waste.
The driver quickly delivered the passenger to the desired address.In gratitude for the service, Galbraith gave the taxi driver a generous tip, and the car moved on. Meanwhile, the inspector himself stopped next to a five-story building and, with his hands on his hips, began to look up. The callgirl told him the number of doctor Baselard’s apartment, but he was puzzled about how to get there – Galbraith did not have the necessary keys, master keys or anything like that with him. Will he really have to climb through the window, like in cheap spy movies?
These thoughts were interrupted by a man of about fifty who, walking next to the inspector, accidentally touched him with his shoulder. Galbraith, deciding that it was worth trying his luck, immediately turned to this man:
“It’s you doctor Baselard?”, he said a little naively.
The old man stopped and turned to the inspector who had called out to him. He had a wrinkled face and a round head with almost no hair left on it. His eyes, swollen with fat, looked at Galbraith with some kind of affectionate reproach. Seeing these eyes, he was suddenly transported in his mind a whole twenty-four years ago – this is the same mister Baselard who often visited his father’s house and, right in front of little Galbraith’s eyes, sat by the fireplace in the living room and shared his stories with the owners. During his stories, Galbraith’s father always smiled absentmindedly at this then twenty-six-year-old gentleman, and his mother, who occasionally came to them from the kitchen to find out if he needed to bring him anything, shook her head and muttered something unintelligible.
The inspector always remembered how mister Baselard shared with them his case involving an operation on the brain of a woodcutter. He still remembered the poor guy’s name – Duncan. The bottom line was that an elderly woodcutter was diagnosed with a brain tumour, and his wife decided to contact the doctors at the local hospital. Mister Baselard, who was then the chief surgeon there, immediately took Duncan under his wing and, keeping him in isolation, watched him for a long time, as if expecting something. And one fine day, when the woodcutter finally lost the ability to think – not least because of the conditions in which he was kept – mister Baselard dragged him into the operating room, where, after injecting him with painkillers, he got down to deal.
The inspector remembered how Baselard told his family in detail about how he to start performed a trepanation on Duncan, then cut the brain tissue and began to remove the tumour, but when it turned out that it had grown into the frontal lobes, mister Baselard realized that this was capitulation. He did not say then what happened to Duncan at the end of the operation, but the woodcutter’s funeral, which took place the day after the doctor’s story, spoke more than words.
All this time, Galbraith was sure that doctor Baselard had died long ago, and now he looked with surprise at him, alive and well, and moreover, having acquired a prestigious position in one of the best hospitals in Portland…
“May I ask what this is regarding?”, his thoughts were interrupted by the quiet but firm voice of an old man.
Instead of answering, Galbraith showed him his police identifier. The doctor silently nodded his head, and, opening the entrance door, let the policeman forward. Rising to the fifth floor, he turned to the inspector with some strange gaiety:
“I hope your interest in my person is not too comprehensive…”, he said.
“Don’t worry, the police just have a few questions for you”, Galbraith answered in a soothing tone.
An ocean of hatred seethed inside his entire being, but as a police inspector, Galbraith learned to control its waves. When they finally entered the apartment, he turned to the doctor:
“Let’s drink tea and in a quiet atmosphere you will answer me…”, he didn’t have time to finish
“I’ll put the kettle on, but you can ask questions right now”, Baselard answered helpfully
The inspector looked at him a little more closely – with all his appearance his interlocutor expressed impatience and hidden irritation. Baselard was clearly in a hurry somewhere, and it was obvious that the unexpected visit of the policeman was not at all part of his plans, but was only an obstacle on the way to some important goal.
“You’re at it in a hurry?”, Galbraith involuntarily asked
“To England, on affairs”, his interlocutor hissed the last letter like a snake.
The doctor went to the kitchen. Galbraith thought that “I know what your affairs is like there – you killed a child and decided to immediately run away from the crime scene…”
“Good”, he said cheerfully out loud. “You just got out of surgery, I take it?”, asked the inspector, trying not to give free rein to his ardour.
“It feels like you’re clairvoyant, mister”, the doctor’s voice came from the kitchen.
Galbraith looked in – Baselard, rattling some plates, was taking out a pack of tea from the top shelf of the sideboard.
“Really, no need for compliments. Who was operated on?”
“That so small, so plain thing”, the doctor waved him off, placing the kettle under the running water.
“Well, plain thing of course”, thought Galbraith, “Interrupted the life of a baby girl who had not even really known this life yet…”
“What were you doing before?”, the inspector realized that Baselard did not recognize him as that little boy from Gloucester.
“Well, I did all kinds of surgeries”, the interlocutor answered quite willingly
“In America?”, Galbraith inquired
“Both in America and in England, where, in fact, I was born”, continued the doctor.
“All right”, the inspector answered dryly
The kettle was gradually starting to heat up. Glancing at the stove, the doctor headed to the sideboard.
“So, you drink tea with sweets or just like that?”, he asked the guest.
Galbraith wanted to agree with the last phrase, but I thought it would be better to make Baselard stay a little longer.
“I love marmalade”, he lied. “Do you have a couple of pieces?”
“Hmm… I will try to fulfill your plea”, opening the door, the doctor began rummaging through the sideboard.
Trying not to shuffle his feet, the inspector quietly slipped into the corridor and, seeing the open door of the cabinet, looked in. His attention was immediately attracted by a high desk on which stood a vase with yellow asters. Next to her were small pieces of paper filled with black numbers. On the topmost of them were visible marks made in red pencil.
