Transplanted Death Page 24

  “He’s never owned a gun in his life,” Ken muttered.

  A cantilevered overhang covered about nine square feet just outside the door. Without it, Brad doubted Alan would have been able to get the door open. That didn’t mean that the area was free of snow, which had drifted from other parts of the roof. The dark gray clouds seemed to hang only a few feet above their heads.

  The officer stepped forward and sank into the snow; The top step was one-step above the height of the roof. Alan was nowhere to be seen, but there was no doubt as to where he had gone. The trail of foot prints circled to the left.

  After a few steps, the officer must have seen Alan, realized he wasn’t a threat, and holstered his weapon. He motioned it was okay for the rest of them to follow.

  As Brad looked around, he noted that the detective in his fleece-lined nylon parka was the only person dressed to face the wind-whipped bitterly cold temperatures of the hospital’s roof top. How long before they’d suffer the effects of hypothermia?

  Ken Fenimore charged forward, legs loping through the snow like an antelope and yelling, “Dad… Dad.”

  “Follow my tracks,” Brad said to Sharon. “It’ll be easier.”

  They’d only traversed a few feet when he saw Alan, cowered against the parapet wall like a dog trapped in a kennel cage. His arms were wrapped tightly around him as his body fought the cold air.

  Ken moved closer to his father. “Come inside. We need to talk. Please,” he begged.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “We’ll get you the best doctors,” Ken said.

  Alan laughed.

  Ken glanced at the officer, and said, “Help me get him.”

  Following Ken’s lead, the detective slogged a few steps closer through the rooftop snow.

  “No,” Alan screamed. “Don’t come any closer.”

  Alan leaned back, dislodging a chunk of icy snow. It toppled off the edge of the roof wall. A few seconds later they heard breaking glass, and Brad realized Alan was standing just above the roof of the glass covered walkway that led to the hospital’s North annex. Alan peered over the edge, and then looked back at his four would-be rescuers.

  Brad read Alan’s mind and feared what might happen next. He turned to Sharon. Her cheeks glowed bright pink in the below freezing temperatures. “Go back inside. Call Carlton and tell him to seal off the walkway to the annex.”

  Sharon ducked inside the stairway.

  “Hey guys, back off a little,” Brad said, hoping to convince Ken in particular. Detective Tunney saw the wisdom of Brad’s advice and inched back. Ken stood his ground.

  “Think about Marie,” Brad shouted, hoping to disrupt Alan’s self-destructive thoughts. “Marie wouldn’t want you to put your son through this.” Earlier Alan had tried to say that she meant everything to him, and he hoped that appeal might bring the desperate man to his senses. Another burst of wind whipped across the roof, and Brad’s fingers felt numb. “Come back inside with us. Where it’s warm.”

  “Dad, please!” Ken whined.

  “It’s too late,” Alan said, as his body shuddered with cold. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  Alan stood fully erect, with his hands at his side, and a wry smile on his lips. Then he calmly sat on the parapet wall, and propelled himself backwards over the edge.

  Ken rushed forward, peeked over the wall and wailed, “No,” just as they heard a crash of broken glass.

  There was nothing more he could do for Alan, but Brad worried that in a flash of grief Ken might join his father. He motioned to Detective Tunney, and they grabbed Ken, pulling the weeping man back from the edge.

  Brad saw Sharon at the base of the stairs as they reentered the fourteenth floor corridor. The warmth felt good; feeling would soon return to his fingers. Sharon gazed at the shell-shocked face on Ken Fenimore, and then turned to Brad. “Did Alan jump?”

  Brad nodded.

  Sadness veiled Sharon’s face, but she said stoically, “Figured that might happen.”

  “Hold on,” she added.

  Brad watched as Sharon dashed down the hallway shouting after Ken. He stopped and turned back, a vacant stare on his face. Sharon threw her arms around him and they remained in a clinch for several seconds. She handed him a card, said a few words, which Brad imagined might be an offer to talk if he needed her.

  Sharon knew better than anyone that his life would never be the same again.

  Epilogue

  Three weeks later

  Brad sat at the desk in his Bryn Mawr office gazing at the snow from the “storm of a century.” A pile of snow on a birdbath—looking like a giant unbaked biscuit—had measured thirty-one inches, and temperatures remained so bitterly cold that forecasters had begun to joke that the snow might melt by Memorial Day.

  There would be no forgetting that winter.

  Criminals could be cunning, he knew, but he’d been blindsided and even defended his college roommate who—under his nose—committed the most heinous crime spree in Philadelphia’s medical history. That he’d managed to save one of the intended victims provided small comfort.

  Brad still felt used; by a friend no less.

  He reached for the small picture frame that Alan had given him, the one with the photograph from their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Seeing Marie’s beneficent face once again brought a smile to his lips. Brad decided he should add it to the collage of photographs on the wall above his credenza, as a reminder never to let friendship cloud his judgment. He turned the photograph over to see if there was a hook, and noticed the cardboard backing was loose. As he tilted the picture, the backing easily slid to reveal a piece of white paper, a prescription form from Strickland Memorial Hospital on which Alan had penned a short note.

  Brad, I owe you an apology. I wish I could blame my tumor for what I’ve done, but I cannot. I’m lucid enough to know what I’m doing. You, more than anyone, know that Marie meant everything to me.

  Not sure how much longer I have, but when the time comes I hope God will understand. Alan

  How lucid Alan would have been in those final days was the subject of medical debate; His actions were certainly delusional; driven by blind rage.

  When Brad asked, Dr. Dubei told him that Alan’s autopsy revealed a tumor the size of a tennis balltwice what an X-Ray had recorded ten days before his deathaffecting not only the brain stem, but crowding the left temporal lobe.

  Brad was not a religious man. The only time he found himself in church these days was at funerals. His upbringing had taught him to believe in a higher power, and he had only to look at Hubble telescope photographs to appreciate the vastness of the universe and its humbling effect on his own daily life. How could any God who provided the life-giving power of transplants, ever understand Alan’s desire to play god and seek revenge on the man who killed his wife by depriving others of a renewed life?

  The answer to that question eluded him.

  A preview of BLOOD PORN, another Brad Frame Mystery follows these acknowledgments and the author’s bio.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Some stories are easier to write than others, and this one has been percolating for at least seven years; started and set aside, then started again, several times—all for good reasons—such as other publishing opportunities.

  My late wife, Rebecca, was the beneficiary of a kidney transplant in 1985 at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. That life-transforming operation gave her a working kidney for twenty-three years. We are grateful for the thousands of individuals and families who make the decision each year to donate their organs and those of loved ones, and to the medical professionals who facilitate that gift of life.

  I very much appreciate the assistance of members of my writers’ group: Lynda Sasscer Hill, Mary Ellen Hughes, Debbi Mack, Sherriel Mattingly, Bonnie Settle, and Marcia Talley.

  Additional thanks to the following persons who read the complete manuscript and provided helpful comments: Robin Dile Cuneo, Sue Dirh
am, Kevin Harvey, Robert Martin, and David Matthews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any errors or omissions are strictly the responsibility of the author.

  AUTHOR’S BIO

  Ray Flynt is a native of Pennsylvania and the author of the Brad Frame mystery series. His protagonist led an aimless life on Philadelphia's Main Line until his mother and sister were kidnapped and murdered. Brad Frame helped solved their murder and then dedicated his life to bringing justice to others.

  Ray writes suspense novels. Ray is a member of Mystery Writers of America and the Florida Writers Association. He is retired from a diverse career in criminal justice, education, the arts, and human services. He lives in Florida.

  In addition to being a novelist, Ray has written and performs a one-man show based on Ben Franklin.

  BRAD FRAME MYSTERIES

  #1 UNFORGIVING SHADOWS

  #2 TRANSPLANTED DEATH

  #3 BLOOD PORN

  #4 LADY ON THE EDGE

  #5 FINAL JUROR

  #6 EMBALMED

  KISSES OF AN ENEMY

  COLD OATH

  BLOOD PORN

  A Brad Frame Mystery

  Chapter One

  Derek Young grabbed lunch from his locker, stuck a dollar in the vending machine for a can of Coke, and aimed for his usual seat at a table against the wall. Only a few co-workers opted for the eleven-thirty break time—flex lunch they called it—so the room wasn’t crowded. Madeline from the front office shared a quick wave as she zapped an item in the microwave. He waved back, and then opened the lunch pail to see what goodies Ellen had packed. Derek raised a foil wrapped package to his nose. Was that corned beef? He peeled back the wrapping. Indeed, she had packed his favorite sandwich. He lifted the corner of the wheat bread and saw a thick slice of canned beef slathered with mustard and covered in dill pickles. His stomach rumbled.

  Next he retrieved a peach, which he knew had come fresh from a tree in their neighbor’s yard, and a plastic baggie with two—count ‘em two—Oreo cookies. How blessed can one guy be? At the bottom of the pail sat a Hershey’s kiss wrapped in red foil atop a napkin on which Ellen had written in red lipstick, Happy Anniversary! Derek smiled as he thought about their plans for that evening.

  He had just bitten into his sandwich when Manford Taylor loomed next to his table. The strapping black man favored wife-beater shirts to show off glistening oversized biceps, with a scorpion tattooed on his left arm. The overall effect could be intimidating to a stranger, but Derek understood him fairly well. Manford grunted and pointed at the empty chair, and Derek, still munching on the sandwich, motioned for him to sit. Manford was ten years older and bigger, but Derek could match him pound for pound in the exercise room at the warehouse, which the foreman liked to call a “perk” of their employment. Every Thursday after work they spotted for each other on the bench press.

  “What’s up man?” Manford asked.

  Derek swallowed and mumbled, “Not much. You?”

  “I brought you something.” Manford slid a rumpled paper bag across the table.

  The bag, with its dried ketchup stains, looked like it had been used to carry several lunches. He set his sandwich down and began to open the paper bag.

  “Not here.” Manford slapped his meaty paw on top of the bag, drawing a couple of stares.

  “What is it?”

  “Remember that talk we had in the weight room last week?” Manford began. He glanced around and lowered his voice. “You know, about you and the wife having problems in the bedroom?”

  Derek turned to see who might have overheard Manford’s remark. A few more people had entered the lunch room, but no one appeared to notice. He felt embarrassed at having raised the subject with Manford, of all people. It wasn’t like they were best friends. Why did he even say anything? Action had waned in the bedroom, not disappeared entirely. He understood why; Danielle’s premature birth brought a whole new dimension to their lives, and the constant medical attention required for the first year and a half of her life had sapped time and energy from both, but especially Ellen.

  Irritated, Derek replied, “Yeah, what about it?”

  “No need to get upset man. I’m tryin’ to help.

  “Well, maybe I don’t need your help.”

  Conversation at the table got quiet. Manford opened his lunch bag and pulled out a plastic water bottle that looked like it now held iced tea. He also took out a Styrofoam container and flipped back the top to reveal two barbequed chicken breasts. Derek finished eating his sandwich. He could barely look at Manford.

  A few minutes later, after polishing off one of the chicken breasts, Manford cleared his throat and pointed at the still unopened brown paper bag. “That’s a hot video.”

  Derek realized why Manford didn’t want him opening the bag in the lunch room, and mouthed his question, “Porn?”

  Manford nodded.

  Derek remembered the time he and Ellen spent their second anniversary in a hotel on Miami Beach. A hurricane skirted the coast, but dumped a torrent of rain, and they’d spent an entire day in their room. When none of the free movie choices appealed to both of them, he’d persuaded her to watch an adult video from the Pay-Per-View selections. The idea hadn’t repulsed Ellen; though she never called it a turn-on. They’d cuddled as they watched, and eventually the action in their bed eclipsed that on-screen. Danielle had arrived exactly six months later—a two-pound-eleven-ounce preemie. And now they were celebrating their fifth anniversary. Maybe he should borrow the video and see what happens.

  Derek took a bite out of the juicy peach and peered over at Manford who looked sheepish. He wasn’t sure how to ask his next question—which dealt with personal preferences—without sounding racist. Ask with a smile. He tapped the paper bag. “Are they black girls?”

  “Are you kidding? Nothing but grade-A white meat for me.” Manford sunk his teeth into the second chicken breast. “You’ll like it,” he muttered as he chewed.

  Derek finished the peach and reached for the Oreos.

  “Skip to the second scene,” Manford advised. “The opening’s boring.”

  Hard to imagine porn being boring. “Okay.” Derek glanced at his watch, and realized he only had a few minutes to get back to work, and wanted to touch base with Ellen first. He stuffed the second cookie and the Hershey’s kiss in his t-shirt pocket, grabbed the bag with the video and fit it inside his lunch pail.

  “That’s just a loan,” Manford said. “I want it back.”

  Derek nodded.

  “See you in the weight room after work?”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you, I can’t today. It’s our anniversary, and I’m taking…” Derek paused, prepared to say Ellen, but then worried that Manford had already intruded on his personal life, and he’d have to be more cautious what he shared. “… my wife out to dinner.”

  Manford looked disappointed. “Next week then.”

  “Sure.” Derek stood up, headed for the lunch room door, and speed-dialed his home number as he stowed the lunch pail back in his locker.

  Derek punched out exactly at four p.m. Two minutes later he slipped into his six-year old Toyota Camry for the twenty minute drive west on Route 30 to their home in Coatesville, PA. He rolled his shoulders to ease the tensions from the last four hours of moving pallets by forklift off four-story high storage shelves to waiting tractor trailer trucks.

  He planned two stops, but as he neared the turn off for the car wash rain drops began pelting the windshield, and the dark sky threatened a gully washer; Mother Nature would be cleaning his car. This storm had nothing to do with the hurricane that forecasters had been mentioning for days—Irene would arrive over the weekend.

  Derek found a close-in parking space at the Acme super market in Downingtown, dashed through the rain, and headed for the floral and gift section where he found a nice bouquet of mixed flowers, including one red rose, for seven dollars! He’d pay at least four times that much at a flower shop, but money was tight, and he kept telling himse
lf it’s the thought that counts.

  Back in the car, Derek had just pulled onto the main highway when the sky let loose complete with sound and light show. He threw the wipers into high, and matched the slower pace of the other drivers in rush hour traffic.

  With the random predictableness of a late-August shower, by the time Derek pulled into his driveway the rain had stopped and a ribbon of sunlight in the western sky promised clearing and a nice evening.

  “I’m home,” Derek shouted, as he entered through the kitchen door.

  “In here,” Ellen responded from the living room.

  Derek laid the flowers on the counter, opened his lunch box, and took the video out of the bag. He was surprised to see only a plain transparent jewel case, with the shiny disk exposed, and no graphics to describe the content. He tossed the overused bag, and tucked the plastic case in the back of his pants, covering it with his shirt. Flowers in hand, he marched to the living room.

  “Hey there, beautiful.” He found Ellen on the sofa with a book on her lap, looking relaxed in khakis and a pink short-sleeved blouse. Her shoulder length brown hair flipped under, and she’d applied a pink lipstick. Even her cheeks looked rosy; she was just as beautiful as when they’d first met ten years earlier in their junior year of high school. Ellen transferred to the West Chester area from Ohio, and sat across from him in their home room. They’d become friends, but didn’t start dating until after graduation. “Happy Anniversary!” Derek extended the flowers and bent down for a kiss.

  “Oh, Derek, they’re gorgeous. I’ll get a vase.”

  She stood and Derek thought he saw a tear glistening in the corner of her eye. He put his hands on her shoulders. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’s just… This is the first time I’ve been away from Danielle.”