Hunting for Hippocrates. Warren J. Stucki

after reading the x-rays, Moe saw unmistakable silhouettes of Connie and Howard sitting outside his office on the bench in the foyer. They were facing the opposite direction staring out the large picture window. Connie still had her arm draped around her father’s shoulders.

      Though he knew he shouldn’t listen, he couldn’t help it. Moe paused at his office door for a moment. “—that’s why I had you see him. On my rounds, I talk to a lot of different people in doctors’ offices. The nurses really like to gossip. You pretty much get to know the reputation of all the doctors by talking to the nurses. He’s the best.”

      “With a town the size of St. George, even in the real estate business I hear things too,” Howard said. “I hear he’s divorced.”

      “Well, I hope that doesn’t bother you, as your oldest daughter is too,” Connie said, laughing.

      “No, that doesn’t bother me. Anyway, I’m glad you’re done with that womanizer Rigettori and I’m glad you dropped his name. You don’t look like a Rigettori.”

      “Me too, dad. But why bring it up? I mean the divorce thing. I hope it’s not because of the Church’s stand.”

      “Nah, I don’t much care what the Church says and I have all the confidence in the world in Dr. Mathis. But you’re both divorced. When you first insisted that I see him, I thought it was because you two were romantic, but now I see that’s just not the case. Too bad, you two would make a nice couple.”

      “Dad! I can take care of my own love life. To him, I’m just a drug rep and—” Connie sighed and her voice tailed off.

      Feeling guilty for eavesdropping, Moe quietly opened his office door, then entered, shutting the door without a sound.

      After finishing up with Mr. Kite, dictating a record of each patient’s visit, and making hospital rounds, it was late, as usual, when Moe finally returned his dark silent home. The house was constructed in the pueblo style and projected the illusion of a flat top roof with vegas, log poles, protruding at regular four-foot intervals. The building was covered with tapioca white stucco in the classic Spanish lace pattern. Surrounding the house was a small twenty-acre ranch where Moe grazed his three registered quarter horses, two mares and a stud. Though not ostentatious, the place did give the appearance of a southwest hacienda.

      The U-shaped house enclosed a Spanish courtyard containing a small landscaped lagoon was enclosed by the U-shaped house. The open end of the U was abruptly bordered by sheer, black lava cliffs containing several large panels of ancient Anasazi petroglyphs.

      While he was building the house, Moe had employed a native-American carpenter, Fergeson Yazzie. One day he had asked Fergie to interpret the writings. Fergie studied the panels for a few minutes then proclaimed he had figured out the timeless message of his ancestors, “Gone to Seven-Eleven to pick up beer; be back in an hour.” Moe still chuckled when he recalled the scene.

      Yes, he had enjoyed his home, but what he had not enjoyed was his single life and he especially did not like coming home to a dark, silent house. But that’s what he had done for four years, ever since Annie had run off with that so-called artist from Sedona, Arizona.

      Moe parked his Jeep in the garage and flipped on the lights. Immediately, the odor of death, the smell of decomposing flesh, hit him like a blow to the head. For three days he had put off burying Casey because he just could not face it. He’d even been parking outside. Well, the stench in the garage left little doubt. He had to bury little Casey and he had to do it tonight. Grabbing a shovel and the flashlight, Moe purposefully headed for the pasture in front of the house. Dorey was in the south pasture. The ground was soft with the rain and Moe had just irrigated, but still it required a large hole to bury a six-month-old horse.

      When the hole appeared large enough, Moe headed back to the garage. Barely, able to contain his emotions he gathered up Casey and carried him back to the pasture. Gently, he lowered the colt into the grave, then with tears in his eyes he stared down at the small corpse. God, how he would miss Casey, prancing around with head held high, showing off for him and his mother.

      It was absolutely inconceivable to Moe that anyone would want to kill him. Obviously, it was not that they felt malice for the horse. A horse was not like a wild sheep-killing dog. Someone was trying to get him, not the horse. Who hated him that much? Wiping his tears, Moe started shoveling in the dirt.

      After finishing with the grave, Moe plodded back to the house. He really should eat something before giving himself his evening dose of insulin. Absentmindedly, he tore a frozen dinner from its box and shoved it in the microwave. Since his divorce, Moe never cooked. What was the point? When he was a kid, meals were not just for fuel, they were also the family social hour. A chance to get caught up on each other’s lives, to exult in the family triumphs and share the failures and sorrows. Some social hour now, eating alone. Frozen dinners were a perfect commentary for his present life.

      No, Moe did not enjoy the bachelor’s life. For a time, he had tried the single bars, what few there were in southern Utah. Soon, he had discovered that he was not very good at the bar scene. He had felt awkward and childish, and he was clumsy with the “one-liners.” Furthermore, he was not all that fond of alcohol. He did drink socially, but even that was becoming a problem, now that he had diabetes.

      Moe had considered going to the Mormon Church sponsored singles dances, but didn’t really fit in there either, since he was not a religious person or a church goer. Eventually, he resigned himself to the fact he would remain celibate and companionless. To fill the void, he started devoting more and more time to work. His practice prospered and what spare time he did have, he spent with the horses.

      Then, just as he was getting comfortable with his life as a monk, Judy suddenly appeared in one of his operating rooms as a circulating nurse. She had just relocated to St. George, a transplant from Salt Lake City. The apparent reason for her defection: she was trying to get out of a bad relationship. Though she had never said, Moe suspected the bad relationship was with a married man.

      Judy was a small, pretty woman in a saucy sort of way, but unfortunately, she was also a tease. She flirted with everyone—all the surgeons, including his pious partner, Rusty. Moe, however, was the only single surgeon on staff. Therefore, at least theoretically, he had the advantage. Even though there was a big difference in their ages, after a few months of working together, Moe had asked Judy to dinner and a movie. Their dating continued and eventually she had stayed at the ranch overnight a couple of times. Moe figured they were an item now, though in the back of his mind he was not sure he could trust her.

      When Moe had asked her if she wanted to go to Cozumel with him, Judy had promptly agreed and though she was not a diver, she was willing to learn. Moe explained that after they had arrived in Cozumel, Judy could enroll one of the resort certification courses and be a trained diver in a couple of days.

      Throughout their short courtship, the main thing that troubled Moe was Judy’s continual flirting. And even that didn’t bother him all that much, except when she flirted with Rusty. Moe was pretty sure nothing was going on between them. After all, Rusty was a married man and an active Elder in the Mormon Church. The irritating thing, why would she want to flirt with him anyway? Regardless of all that, Moe was very much looking forward to the vacation. Since his divorce four years ago, he really hadn’t had a vacation and it was past due.

      The beeping of the microwave broke his train of thought. The Healthy Choice sesame chicken dinner was done. Time to eat, check his blood sugar and time to take his evening dose of humulin. Though he’d been on insulin for over a year, he still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that he was a diabetic.

      In his mind, he just did not look like a diabetic. He had always been athletic, played high school and junior college football. And even now, he was still in good health, other than the diabetes. Moe knew he should not have been surprised. He had always known that diabetes was a possibility, it was an inherited disease and his mother had been a diabetic for years. In fact, it was complications of diabetes that caused her death. But it still came as a shock when he was actually diagnosed.

      Moe had made the diagnosis himself. Inexplicably,