JOHN DUPRE WAS THE FIRST IN THE GROUP to be reinterviewed about the circumstances at Minuit on the evening of Gemma’s murder. He entered the room and extended his hand to each of us, and when he grinned at me in greeting I understood why Maureen Forester had found him so attractive. With none of the nonsense about how precious his time was and what a nuisance we were making of ourselves at the hospital, DuPre was gracious and expressed his willingness to do anything to move the investigation along.

We had questioned him at the station house days earlier about his discovery of Pops in the radiology department. I apologized to him and explained our need to reexamine all the events surrounding the time of the murder.

“Why don’t you start with your schedule last week?” I asked him. “Take us through it from Monday to Wednesday, just so we can put it in perspective.”

His eyes met mine directly and he spoke with confidence and comfort. “Reminds me of the time our preacher was killed, back in Mississippi,” DuPre drawled with a smile on his face. “I was only eight but the State Police questioned every one of us in school like we were John Dillinger. Made quite an impression on me. Almost went into law enforcement instead of medicine. I admire what you’re doin‘. I know it’s like looking for the proverbial needle. I suppose some of my colleagues will take it personally, but I’m happy to help.”

DuPre pulled out a pocket-sized diary and opened it to the preceding Monday. “You’re welcome to see my office appointment book, but I’m pretty clear that I never got over to this side of town until Thursday afternoon when I needed to use the library.”

DuPre told us about his neurological practice and described his regular hours at the Central Park West office, which he had maintained since starting out in Manhattan two years ago. His receptionist and his assistant were there with him each day of the week.

“How about evenings, Doc? Where’s home?”

“Strivers’ Row, detective. One hundred thirty-ninth Street, north side,” DuPre answered, referring to the elegant group of row houses built in Harlem in the 1890s. “My wife’s a designer, Miss Cooper. McKim, Mead and White did the homes onour side of the block, and we’ve been busy restoring this one since we moved in. I’m doin‘ a lot of the woodwork myself, every night after we finish dinner with the kids. Y’all ought to come see it sometime.”

That answer gave us three pieces of news. DuPre was making good money-or needed it-to fund a home at that address. It also placed him a few miles away from the medical center on the night of the murder, if that’s where he actually had been. And it provided the worst kind of alibi for us to break, if there was any reason at all to suspect him-a wife and two kids.

Wallace shifted the young doctor away from the domestic scene and back to the deceased. “What was that expression you used to describe Dr. Dogen last week? Ice maiden?”

“Maybe I’m just used to southern charm, Mr. Wallace. I told you I didn’t know her well enough to take it to heart, hear? It’s just that she was awfully stiff and remote with me. Simply couldn’t get through to her no matter how I tried.”

“We’ve just given Mr. Dietrich a subpoena for some of the personnel records here at Mid-Manhattan, Dr. DuPre. We’ll be getting the files in a few days, but I’m wondering if there’s anything we might learn about you that you’d prefer to-”

“You’re taking yourselves mighty serious, detective, aren’t you now? Gettingour records? The staff? Seems to me you’ve blown every good lead we’ve given you. Coleman Harper and I led you right straight to someone a hell of lot more dangerous than any of my colleagues and you messed that all up. Only have to be in here a couple of hours to know we’ve got a real problem controlling access to the hospital.”

Unruffled-and sticking it right back at us. John DuPre was certainly a cool character.

“While you’re on that other night, Dr. DuPre,” Chapman said, “was it your idea or Dr. Harper’s to go down to the X-ray room?” Chapman remembered, as I did, that each man had credited the other with the suggestion.

“It was Coleman, definitely. Didn’t I tell you that? I had planned to do my work in the library that afternoon. I was talking with some of Spector’s protégés-Coleman would like to consider himself one, I guess-and he asked me to go on downstairs to radiology to have a look at some test pictures with him. No reason for me to be there otherwise.”

Mike was probing for background. “What brought you to New York City to practice?”

“A combination of circumstances, Mr. Chapman. My second wife grew up here, has all her family in town. And then, professionally-well, I’d outgrown my business back home. I’d been presenting papers at some conferences, began consulting with physicians around town who’d heard me lecture, and I decided to try the big time.”

“Are you on the teaching staff at Minuit?”

“No, no. I’ve got privileges here at the hospital. Just getting my foot in the door, new boy in town and all that. Can’t help you a bit with the politics of this place.”

DuPre had no other useful information for us, as hard as Mike and Mercer pushed him on details about the medical center and the neurological service. They had finished their questioning and seemed mildly surprised when the quiet doctor asked them if they’d mind stepping outside while he spoke to me in private.

“I gotta call the lieutenant,” Mike said. “We’ll be back in ten with another witness.”

John DuPre waited for the door to close before speaking. “Two things I wanted to say to you, Miss Cooper. First, about my personnel file. You’re going to see that I’m in the middle of an ugly malpractice suit. Mean and frivolous. You’re welcome to talk with my lawyers about it but I’d sure as hell like to keep it out of the newspapers.”

I let him go on.

“A patient of mine died. Back home in Atlanta, before I came to New York. Has nothing to do with Mid-Manhattan or any of these events, of course. Young man had come to me with complaints-dizziness, weight loss, and so on. I examined him, tested him, sent him home with medication and an appointment for a battery of more workups. Two days later, he was dead.

“I assure you I won’t try to hide anything from you. I just don’t want you looking at that as part of some damn murder case. You’re a lawyer and I expect you to be a lot more understanding than those cops about the legal ramifications of this.”

“Did Gemma Dogen know about your lawsuit?”

“I’m quite sure she did. Can’t swear to it ‘cause she never mentioned it to me. Could be one reason she was so cool to me, but we just won’t ever know that, will we?”

“And the other matter?”

DuPre smiled again, his serious news behind him. “If there’s anything missing from my file that you need, just give my office a call. They’ve got duplicates. I went through a rather messy divorce a few years back. Left my first wife for this one. Julia got a bit crazy and set fire to my office back home in Atlanta. I had to get new copies of all my diplomas and certificates from the universities. Not sure what they’ve got here at the hospital but my secretary has everything if you don’t find what you’re looking for here.”

“Thanks, doctor. No reason you couldn’t have said all this in front of the detectives. Doesn’t sound like anything we can’t deal with quietly, professionally.”

“Well, Miss Cooper. Maybe it’s my southern experience that makes me so damn skeptical of the police. I’d just rather have my private affairs in your hands than theirs,” he said, reaching across the table to clasp his fingers on top of mine. “I’m sure I’ll be speaking with you again.”

Wallace was waiting outside the conference room with Banswar Desai, one of the two doctors who had been tapped by Spector to stand in for Gemma Dogen the morning after the stabbing when she had failed to appear in the operating room.