The Solution of Dr. Adair

Crime Fiction by Hillary Lyon

Fontane walked the long length of the polished cherry wood conference table, a walk he dreaded because of who was waiting for him at the other end: Dr. Adair and CEO Barker. Adair was wearing his white lab coat so that everyone in the building would know he was not only a doctor, but Barker’s personal in-house physician.

Barker was seated at the end of the table with his head tilted back and his mouth agape. He was, Fontane noted and not for the first time, a scarecrow of an old man; even the CEO’s bespoke suits couldn’t hide that fact.

“So what is the problem this time?” Fontane said as he reached the end of the table. Adair turned to look at the Chief Operating Officer through the thick glass of his ridiculous spectacles. Fontane often wondered why the doctor didn’t get a pair of modern ultra-light glasses, or wear contacts, like most people. He suspected Adair thought these glasses made him look intelligent. A theatrical prop.

Adair just waved to the CEO. “It has happened again.”

“So why call me?” Fontane growled. He was tired of this ongoing problem. “Just give him a shot, like you did a couple of years ago. That’ll perk him right up.” Anything to keep the share-holders happy, he added bitterly to himself.

Adair shook his head nervously. “That only works if I can give it to him when he is on the brink of death. And by the time his secretary contacted me…well…he was already cooling.”

“Okay, then apply those electrodes, like you did last year.” Adair leaned in close to Barker to examine his face; it was gray. He closed the old man’s mouth. It fell open again. “Kick-start his heart.” He turned to leave but Adair’s reply stopped him.

“That process is only effective immediately after death. As you can see…he’s been here too long for that to work.” Adair shrugged. “Besides, I don’t have any of the necessary equipment with me.”

“Great,” Fontane muttered under his breath. Sometimes he questioned why he accepted this position. Was the money really worth the trouble? He admitted to himself the pay was pretty sweet, but the aggravation of dealing with this recurring problem left a bitter, acidic taste in his mouth. He closed his eyes, searching for a solution. The company needed the old guy—at least his physical presence—to reassure the share-holders and the public that the company and all it’s dealings were copacetic.

Fontane’s eyes flicked open. “That herbalist you employed last summer—what’s her name? Madame Gruyere, or something.” He rubbed his hands together, gleefully. “Get her! She can do another incantation and—Ta da!—the old man is up and moving again, and the share-holders will never—”

Adair held up his hand, stopping Fontane in mid-sentence. “If you recall, after Gruyere conducted her little ceremony, Barker came back…odd. He suffered bouts of both short term and long term memory loss. His mobility went from jaunty to shuffling. He often tripped and fell. He drooled.”

Fontane nodded at the memory of last summer’s annual share-holder meeting. Barker did have episodes of staring off into space, of answering questions with garbled, nonsensical replies. His appearance worried the attendees, setting off a wildfire of malicious (if basically true) gossip;  Fontane spent most of the post-meeting soiree dumping cold water on those fires.

Suddenly, Fontane snapped his fingers.“I know! We’ll shove a computer chip in his brain, and use AI to control him.” He shimmied his shoulders in a little victory dance and rocked back on his heels, happy with his solution to this problem. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? “I’ll contact the genius kids in the MIS department, and they can set it all up.”

Adair’s shoulders sagged. “That’s not how AI works…at least not yet.” The doctor removed his glasses to polish the thick lenses with the hem of his lab coat. He then added, his beady dark eyes shining, “Perhaps we need to look to historical precedents for a solution.”

* * *

At the end of the business day, Dr. Adair and Fontane trundled Barker downstairs to the parking garage and positioned him in the backseat of his vintage convertible. Fontane strapped him in and put Barker’s trademark dark sunglasses on him. Adair had the idea of placing a flu mask over Barker’s nose and mouth to conceal the fact that his jaw kept falling open. It will keep the flies out, the doctor reasoned.

As Adair was putting the mask on Barker, they heard approaching footsteps. “It’s Corey,” Fontane noted. “Barker’s chauffeur. I’ll intercept him before he gets to the car. Give him instructions.”

Fontane waved to Corey, stopping him before he reached the convertible. “Hey, Corey,” Fontane said as he neared the young man. “Listen, Barker is in a pensive mood today, and doesn’t want any chit-chat on the drive home.” Corey nodded; this wouldn’t be the first time the old man wanted to be left alone.

“And,” Fontane continued, “since it’s a sunny spring day he wants to ride home with the top down.”

Corey raised his eyebrows, but didn’t argue. Barker rarely rode with the top down, said it messed with his hair and allergies. Corey supposed that’s why Barker was wearing the medical mask. And Corey caught a whiff of the old guy’s hair spray; Barker must have used so much, hurricane winds wouldn’t muss it. Vanity, Corey thought, thy title is CEO.

Fontane patted Corey on the shoulder as they walked to the car. “Now, when you exit the garage, be careful not to run over any of those hippy protesters out front,” Fontane laughed. “Wouldn’t want to get sued again—or dent this classic convertible.” Corey nodded and slid in behind the wheel.

Adair and Fontane rode the executive express elevator up to Fontane’s office on the eight floor, where they had a clear view of the growing throng outside the building. They watched the convertible exit the garage, and turn onto the street. The car slowly inched its way through the crowd.

“You know,” Dr. Adair began, “you’ll be promoted to CEO, which will please the share-holders. You’ll get the corner big office, absolute control over the direction of the company, and an obscene increase in pay. But what happens to me? Where will I…”

“I’ll see to it you are retained as my personal physician,” Fontane said absently as he watched the agitated crowd below. “I think they’ve recognized him.”

The convertible didn’t make it far through the mob. Someone carrying a hand-printed protest sign shouted and pointed at Barker. Seemingly as one angry throbbing organism, the crowd turned and focused its fury at the person they held responsible for their current misery: Barker.

Fontane and Adair couldn’t hear the words shouted but they did hear—pop, pop, pop.

The protesters scattered like litter in the wind, dropping their protest signs like so much garbage in the street. Corey jumped out of the car and began talking on his phone, frantically waving his free hand.

Fontane and Adair turned to look at each other. “Problem solved,” Adair said. They both smiled.

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Bio: Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She’s an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.

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Cover art by the author Hillary Lyon

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