Chapter 4 #3
Niomi continued. “Navid had a reputation for undermining patients’ symptoms and shuffling them out the door with barely a cursory look at their chart.
He earned earfuls from a few enraged mothers with sick children or from fellow nursing staff.
We are the ones who perform most of the exams. We present our findings to the doctors, and they dictate treatment. ”
“Can you think of an instance that stood out more than another? A particularly volatile encounter, perhaps?” I asked.
Niomi was already shaking her head. “No. I’m so sorry. I want to help. I do, but…”
Rue and I met with one of Navid’s colleagues and listened to a similar story. They, too, couldn’t identify any one person or describe a single incident that might have led to his attack and murder.
We left the hospital at close to noon, stopping for lunch at a fusion-style buffet café off campus before hitting the university. The cafeteria-style setup seemed to appeal to students, and we were lucky to get a table.
The buzz of chatter was its own protective bubble of privacy. With so many conversations taking place in the vast café, no one paid us attention, and we talked freely.
“Navid sounds like a grade A asshole.” Rue tore open a mini sachet of soya sauce with her teeth and drizzled its contents over her deconstructed sushi bowl.
“He probably treated upward of a hundred or more patients a day. If he pissed off a tenth of them over the course of a month, our pool of suspects is still unreasonable.”
I stabbed a bowtie noodle from my cold pasta salad and speared the hunk of chicken next to it. “He’s not too friendly with colleagues either.”
“Maybe we’ll have better luck at the university.”
The drone of too many conversations washed over us as we ate.
I drew up my work email, and a shot of warmth tickled my lower belly when I saw Navid Kordestani’s preliminary autopsy report sitting pretty at the top.
I itched to reply, hoping the handsome new pathologist would be available for drinks later that night, but Rue spoke before I could summon the right words.
“It fits with the heartless bastard message.”
“Huh?” It took a second to shift gears, and Rue glanced at my phone, quickly deducing where my attention had strayed. “Plan your date later.”
“I wasn’t—”
Rue glared. I put my phone down like a reprimanded child.
“The message,” she said. “The flower spike through the heart. It fits with how everyone describes him. Heartless. A bastard. It tells me that this guy went too far with someone.”
“It broadens the scope, too. We’ve moved far beyond infidelity.
We could be looking at a pissed off dad whose kid’s tummy ache complaints went ignored or a scorned hockey player who felt Navid lacked bedside manner or made his injury worse by disregarding symptoms, hence ruining his career.
” Under my breath, I muttered, “The piece of shit probably got what he deserved.”
Rue glared over her meal, and I bit the inside of my cheek, cursing the unfiltered comment. Personal commentary had no place at work.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Should have filtered that part out.”
“Yes, you should have. I don’t want to hear it again.”
Rue plucked a piece of salmon from her bowl and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly. She knew the black and white version of my backstory, but I’d never colored in the picture, so the finer details of my past remained a mystery. I suspected she knew more than she let on.
Rue set her chopsticks aside. “We should chat with the ex-wife. I can set something up for tomorrow morning if she’s agreeable.
If anyone is going to give us dirt, it’s her.
The divorce is still relatively fresh. Two years isn’t that long, and Allard implied the woman showed up at the hospital from time to time. ”
“Maybe Navid wouldn’t leave her alone, and she offed him.”
“Ah, but there is a flaw in your thinking. She’s a woman, and we of the fairer sex are apparently incapable of subduing big, strong men.”
“Yeah, yeah. Shut up. You’re a pain in my ass.”
A rare smile touched the corners of my partner’s lips. I chuckled and kicked her under the table. “I admit, you could subdue any man who wasn’t expecting an attack.”
“I could subdue you even if you saw me coming.”
“Eat your lunch, brat.”
We finished our meal and headed out.
Our meeting with Navid’s colleagues at the university didn’t garner new information.
Faculty only confirmed the doctor was an asshole whom no one liked.
He was harsh with students and graded on a steep curve.
He rarely gave extensions, set impossible standards, and had no problem humiliating pupils in front of the entire class when they didn’t know an answer.
The doctor taught some sort of biochemistry course to second- and third-year students.
Its syllabus far exceeded the scope of my understanding.
After spending half the afternoon chatting with a handful of professors from the department and a few students, we discovered the name of Navid’s TA—Buckley Calloway—and tracked him down.
“He’s really dead?”
Buckley—who informed us he preferred the nickname Boss—was twenty-three and carried a few extra pounds of attitude on his short, stalky frame.
He went into full-fledged asshole jock mode the second he found out we were cops, posturing and puffing out his chest in what seemed a weak attempt at intimidation.
I suspected Buckley had played sports in high school but had become the victim of frat parties and too much freedom at university.
His days of pumping weights with his buddies had been replaced with alcohol and lethargy.
His distaste for authority suggested he’d had a few run-ins with the cops, too.
I made a mental note to look him up when we got back to the station.
I’d been that kid once upon a time and suspected I might find some minor infractions on his record.
“Dr. Kordestani was discovered yesterday morning along the Rideau River Trail,” Rue explained. “Someone strangled him.”
My partner’s recount of the crime must have hit a nerve.
Buckley kicked the edge of a desk and swore.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s fucking bullshit.
Who would do that to him? Oh my god. Nav was a great guy.
This can’t be real.” He tore his fingers through cropped auburn hair and spun in place like a trapped animal seeking escape.
We’d tracked him down in a study section of the library, and the press of computer stations surrounding us made it hard for Buckley to pace far.
My partner’s brows rose as we exchanged glances.
“Great guy?” I queried. “You seem to be the only person who thinks so.”
I propped my hands on my hips, purposefully flaring my jacket and displaying my shoulder holster. The point was not to intimidate but to bring Buckley’s temper down and remind him he was dealing with authority.
It didn’t work.
“What are you talking about?”
I ignored Buckley’s questions and asked my own. “Did you get along with Dr. Kordestani?”
“Of course I did. He was my mentor. God, he’s about the only teacher worth his salt around here. I have to do an ER rotation next year, and he was going to pull strings and get me into the university hospital. The plan was for me to work under him. Fuck. Man, this sucks. I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“Were you ever his student?” I asked.
“Last year.”
“How’d you do in his class?”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
Buckley clenched his fists, popping his knuckles. “I did decent. Top ten percent. It’s why I’m his TA. Dr. Kordestani was tough but fair. I worked my ass off, and he recognized it. The world lost a great man.”
Not a single person we’d chatted with had called the deceased man fair, let alone great. I hummed, holding eye contact.
Buckley stood stiff, crossing his arms as he scowled.
“We’ve heard from several people that Dr. Kordestani wasn’t popular. He seems to have a reputation for upsetting students, faculty, and even his patients at the hospital.”
I stared at Buckley, waiting for a response, but he stared back, saying nothing.
“What? No comment?” I asked.
“I didn’t hear a question.”
I held my tongue against a snappy retort. “Do you disagree with these assessments?” I asked instead.
“Yes.”
“Okay. In that case, can you think of anyone who wanted to harm Dr. Kordestani? Someone who didn’t get along with him or was seen arguing with him on occasion?”
For the first time, Buckley seemed to consider the question. Was it possible that this student knew a different version of the doctor? A nicer version? “Fatemeh.”
“Who’s Fatemeh?” I asked.
Rue answered. “The ex-wife.”
“Yeah, her.” Buckley stared at my partner with a wrinkle in his nose. “She’s a piece of work and the only person I can think of who outright hated him.”
“With reason?” I asked.
Buckley shrugged.
Rue asked the next question. “Did they speak often?”
An unsettling devilish humor shone from Buckley’s eyes. “Only when he conveniently forgot to pay his alimony. Then the bitch got maaaad.”
“Oh yeah? How often did that happen?” I asked.
“Monthly.”