Transplanted Death Page 4

  “Stay there, Doctor,” Harris directed, as she moved back behind her desk. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She lifted the receiver on her phone and pressed several buttons. “Tony, get Dr. Dubei for me please.”

  A few seconds later her phone gave two short rings and she answered it.

  “Jamal? It’s Danita Harris,” she said sweetly. “You paged Dr. Fenimore, and he’s in my office … Yes, he’s sitting right here … Hold on, I’m going to put you on the speaker phone.” Her finger hovered over the telephone console for a few seconds as if trying to figure out which button to push. “There, I think I’ve got it. Everyone should be able to hear you now.”

  “Doctor, I hope you realize how busy we are down here,” Jamal Dubei said.

  Alan nodded before he spoke. “I do, Jamal. I appreciate you looking at that sample—”

  “Look, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I don’t have time for it.”

  “I … I don’t,” Fenimore stammered.

  Danita Harris shifted in the chair behind her desk. “Jamal, it’s been a tough day for everyone, and we’ve got a long night ahead of us with this snow emergency. What have you found?”

  A long sigh sounded through the speakerphone. “I analyzed the sample Dr. Fenimore sent me,” Jamal said. “It is comprised of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. I hope you don’t expect me to tell you which bathroom sink it came from.”

  Chapter Four

  4:40 p.m., Wednesday, January 10th

  Danita Williams-Harris cradled the phone. She smiled and spoke softly. “I would appreciate it if the three of you waited outside while I confer with Mr. Whitmore.” Brad had never been kicked out of a room more graciously.

  Alan shuffled through the door first and into the reception room. Brad looked at Sharon, and nodded in Alan’s direction. She picked up on his signal, and drew Alan to the far end of the room toward a pair of sleek side chairs. She guided Alan to the chair with its back to Brad and Ms. Harris’ office door, and took the one facing him so she could see any non-verbal signal from Brad. He hoped that she would be able to lower Alan’s anxiety level. After she got out of college Sharon had counseled juvenile delinquents; if she could manage to keep their erratic emotions in check, maybe she could help with Alan.

  Brad hovered near the receptionist’s desk where a portable radio blared dire warnings about the winter storm. Forecasters predicted accumulations of two to three feet, and gale force winds that could bury cars in snowdrifts. Schools in the region had dismissed at mid-day and already announced closings for the balance of the week. The Seventy-Sixer’s game with the Lakers that night had been canceled, Malls had closed early, and so many community events had been canceled that the announcer advised listeners to check before they left home.

  Brad glanced in Sharon’s direction and saw Alan gesticulating wildly with his hands, while Sharon nodded in rapt attention.

  A ding signaled the arrival of an elevator outside the glass wall of the office. Brad watched as a man he suspected to be Edward Carlton, with a walkie-talkie crackling unintelligibly in his hand, strode off the elevator. Tall and distinguished looking, Carlton had thick white hair combed straight back on his head. His ruddy complexion had a sheen matching that of his cheap brown suit. He burst through the glass doors like a man on a mission, raised the leather-encased device to his mouth and pressed a button on the side. “Carlton to base. Ten-twenty—fourteen North. Out.” The hospital’s security chief passed within three feet of Brad without so much as a glimpse in his direction.

  “You can go on in Mr. Carlton,” the receptionist said. “She’s expecting you.”

  Carlton grabbed a mint from a dish on top of Tony’s desk, popped it in his mouth, and marched confidently into Harris’ office.

  Brad paced. He knew it wasn’t water in the sample he’d collected from Barbara McCullough’s room. He’d detected a chemical odor, and besides it had a thicker viscosity. If the lab sample had been switched, Brad wasn’t sure who he could trust.

  At the far end of the room, Alan slouched in his chair as he listened to Sharon. Their conversation was muted, so Brad couldn’t make out the details.

  Brad heard shouting behind the paneled door to Danita Harris’ office. Evidently, the receptionist did too, since he looked at Brad then quickly averted his gaze, and turned up the sound on the portable radio.

  A few minutes later the intercom buzzed on the receptionist’s desk. “Yes,” Tony said, crisply. “Okay, thanks.”

  Tony looked up and said, “They’re ready for you now.”

  “Thanks,” Brad said. “I need a minute or two.”

  He motioned to Sharon who ended her conversation with Alan Fenimore and joined Brad near the receptionist’s desk.

  “Alan, they want us back inside, but I need to speak with Sharon first.”

  Alan nodded, and Brad led Sharon outside to the elevator lobby.

  “I’m sure Ms. Harris is going to throw us out, but before she does, I’d like you to go back to the 7th floor.”

  “Sure,” Sharon said. “Anything specific you want me to look for?”

  “No. Just keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “You got it.” She punched the elevator call button.

  “Wait. You might want to find Vesta Jackson. She was Barbara McCullough’s roommate.” When Sharon appeared puzzled, Brad added, “The liver transplant patient who just died.”

  Sharon mouthed Vesta Jackson, as she tried to commit the name to memory.

  When Brad and Alan returned to Danita Harris’ office, she stood facing the window. The curtain was drawn back, and she stared out into the dark, apparently mesmerized by the swirling snow, flickering like a thousand fireflies illuminated by the light from the office. Her two minions were on their feet, and no one offered Brad and Alan a seat. Brad figured their stay would be even shorter than he’d imagined.

  The PR chief spoke first. “Mr. Frame, I’m very sorry you and your associate had to come all the way down here today for no reason. First thing in the morning,” he glanced toward where Ms. Harris stood by the window, “or whenever our accounting staff is able to make it in,” he clarified, “we’ll send you a check for $2,000 in gratitude for your services.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Brad said.

  A condescending tone crept into Larry Whitmore’s voice. “We appreciate that, Mr. Frame. Perhaps you can donate it to charity.”

  Brad shook his head. “You’re not listening.”

  “I heard what you said, Mr. Frame,” Whitmore said, flatly. “Frankly, after getting our pathologist’s report on that sample you collected, we think your concerns are unfounded.”

  Edward Carlton, who had been standing next to Larry Whitmore, stepped forward and extended his hand. “Mr. Frame, I’m Ed Carlton, Chief of Security here at Strickland Memorial. What Larry is trying to tell you is that your services here are no longer needed. Ms. Harris has asked me to take charge of any investigation that may be required after we see autopsy results.”

  “Investigation?” Brad repeated the word. “Do you mean a cover-up?”

  Carlton’s jaw tightened, and he clenched his fists at his side. “I was a cop for fifteen years before I came here seven years ago. I’ve never covered up a crime.”

  “A badly investigated case is worse than a cover-up,” Brad said, thinking about what Alan had said about the five dollar theft. Alan remained quiet during this exchange, and Brad wondered how long that would last. What had Sharon said that appeared to calm him?

  Carlton’s cheeks flushed, and Larry Whitmore reached out and touched his arm. The security chief lifted his two-way radio to his mouth and barked, “Carlton to base.”

  “Base here,” came the garbled reply.

  “I need two uniformed officers on the 14th floor to escort visitors from the building.”

  The radio crackled and a distant voice said, “Repeat please. Did not copy.”

  Carlton flashed an exasperated
look in Ms. Harris’ direction, and depressed the button to talk again, when she interrupted him. “Ed, wait.” She turned and walked toward them. Carlton and Whitmore moved to make room for her. The five of them formed a small circle and looked like they were ready for anything but a group hug.

  “Mr. Frame,” she began, in a soft tone, “I assure you there will be no cover-up. We would like you to leave the hospital, not because you aren’t an extraordinarily talented detective. Your reputation in this community is legendary. Engaging the services of a private investigator at Strickland is simply contrary to our policies. We have a thirty-four-person security department at this hospital, and elaborate protocols in place with the local police. We’re an authorized satellite location of the Medical Examiner’s office—for just this kind of situation. If the findings of the autopsy show anything other than a natural cause of death, I assure you the matter will be referred to the proper authorities.”

  Brad looked at Alan. “I came here at the request of my friend.”

  “I’m afraid Alan had no right to get you involved,” Ms. Harris said. “He exceeded his authority.”

  Dr. Fenimore blustered, “Danita, I’m standing right here. If you want to talk about me, tell me.”

  “All right,” she said, sounding peeved. “I’m telling you, Alan, you should have shared any suspicions you might have had regarding a possible crime with Ed. As for your violation of policy, we will deal with that after we get through this snow emergency.” She pointed in the direction of the window.

  Dr. Fenimore fumed. “No. We will deal with it right now. First, that man,” his finger shook as he pointed toward Ed Carlton, “is a total incompetent.” Brad put his hand on Alan’s shoulder, but he shrugged him off. The dam had burst and Brad was powerless to stop it. “Second, you’ll have my resignation on your desk in the morning, then you can maneuver to have your buddy Jamal named as the new Medical Director. If you need me any further tonight, I’ll be in the emergency room.” Alan bolted for the exit and shoved the door with both hands, shouting back, “Brad I’m sorry.”

  Danita Harris exhaled and rubbed her right temple. Larry Whitmore held up his wrist and adjusted his watch on his arm. Ed Carlton cleared his throat before speaking, “I think I better have one of my men keep an eye on him tonight.”

  Ms. Harris picked up a file folder from the corner of her desk. “Oh, Ed, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll talk with Alan in the morning. I’d suggest you put two of your officers on the seventh floor tonight.”

  Ed fidgeted with the knot on his tie. “I’m a little short-handed tonight. Six of our men called off due to the storm, and I’ve asked most of the afternoon shift to work overtime so that we can keep our usual posts covered.”

  Danita Harris stared at him. “Ed, I keep telling you to hire more women!” After a pause, she added, “At least try to get one officer to the seventh floor.” Turning to the PR director, she said, “And Larry, stop looking at your watch. I know you need to leave. Just go. Come and see me in the morning.” Larry thanked her and half-bowed his way as he backed out the door. Danita Harris sat in one of the upholstered armchairs and put the manila folder on the glass coffee table in front of her.

  Brad spoke. “Sharon Porter is on the seventh floor right now,” Brad said. “After I meet up with her, I’d like to stop at the coffee shop. We’ll be out of the hospital within half an hour.”

  Ms. Harris gestured to an empty chair opposite her. “Have a seat Brad, I’d like to tie up a few loose ends.” After letting Carlton and Whitmore play bad cop, she seemed to be warming up to play good cop.

  Ed Carlton moved close to the door, saying, “I’ll go work on finding a—an officer for the seventh floor.”

  “One second, Ed. Mr. Frame invited a Philadelphia Police Detective here tonight. What did you say his name was?”

  “Nick Argostino,” Brad replied.

  Harris turned to Carlton. “Do you know him?”

  “Sure.” Ed’s head bobbed a little too rapidly. “I, ah… used to work for him.”

  “Brad what time do you expect Detective Argostino to arrive?”

  “He agreed to meet me at six-thirty o’clock at the main entrance.”

  “Ed, can you plan to meet Detective Argostino and bring him up to date on developments?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “You can go. I’d like to speak privately with Mr. Frame.” Ed Carlton ducked out the door.

  “Brad, how long have you known Alan Fenimore?” Harris asked.

  “Since ninth grade, and we were college roommates.”

  “I’m worried about him,” she said, but without any empathy in her voice.

  Brad nodded. “Alan has been through a lot lately. Marie’s death was devastating to him.” Brad smiled as he added, “I got the two of them together when we were at Princeton. I was an usher at their wedding.”

  “I only met Marie a couple of times—socially,” Harris said, “but they seemed like a devoted couple.” She reached for the folder in front of her. “Alan Fenimore has had an impeccable record, but lately there have been a few incidents.” Brad leaned forward in his chair, and she raised her hand before continuing. “None of them, alone, raises my concern. But collectively—.”

  “What, exactly?” Brad asked, cutting to the chase.

  “I share this with you in confidence—as his friend,” Harris said. “Maybe you can help.”

  “If I can.” Brad was wary, but saw an opportunity to remain at the hospital and support Alan.

  “On two occasions in the last month he has been late for breakfast meetings with the fund raising committee for the hospital’s new wing,” Danita said.

  Brad groaned and shook his head, but Harris continued, “I know that sounds petty, but I’ve been here for five years and I have never known him to be late to a meeting. Then about two weeks ago, between the Christmas and New Year’s holiday, Dr. Shiatari asked him to assist with a heart bypass operation. He agreed, but left about two-thirds of the way through the procedure with no explanation. It was several days later when the doctor confronted him about it, and Alan explained he’d felt sick. But he could have said that when he left.”

  Brad put a quizzical expression on his face. “There must be something else.”

  “Yes. We’ve had reports that Alan has spent a lot of time in the chapel lately.”

  Brad laced his hands together on top of his head. “Oh, come on. The man’s wife died a month ago for Christ’s sake.”

  “Wait,” Harris pleaded. “We have a non-denominational chapel on the first floor.” She consulted the file in front of her. “Three days ago a visitor reported to the information desk that when she tried to enter the chapel, a man fitting Alan Fenimore’s description yelled at her to get out.”

  “Fitting Alan’s description,” Brad glared at her as he repeated the phrase. “Well, it sounds like your problems are going to be solved. Alan said he’s resigning.”

  Danita Harris exhaled. “Brad, I didn’t ask you to remain here so we could fight. I’m speaking with you as Alan’s friend. I don’t want him to resign. But I think he should take a leave of absence to grieve for his wife.”

  Brad threw up his hands. “You’re the administrator. Call him in here tomorrow and put him on leave.”

  “It’s not as simple as that. On paper, it may look like I’m in charge. But in reality it doesn’t work that way—it’s far more complex. I’m a hospital administrator, not a medical professional. A certificate in first aid from the Red Cross is the extent of my medical knowledge. Oh, working here I’m familiar with a lot of the jargon, but I tread in that arena at my own professional peril. Alan is in charge of the medical staff at this hospital, and I run everything else from food service, to security, the gift shop, to keeping the sewer traps cleaned out. There is a Medical Advisory Committee of our Board of Directors, but if I go there with my concerns…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What do you expect me to do?” Brad asked. />
  “Talk with him,” she pleaded. “As a friend. I think that is where you can be most helpful to Alan and Strickland Memorial.”

  Brad cleared his throat. “Tell me something. What’s going on between Alan and Jamal Dubei?”

  Her eyes opened wide like she was unprepared for the question. After a few seconds, she said, “Jamal challenged Alan for the medical director’s position about three years ago.”

  Brad shook his head. “But that was three years ago, and Alan got the job. Why would Dr. Dubei be a threat to him now?”

  “The position comes up for review every three years. Jamal is a gifted doctor, and I’m sure he would like to be the medical director… someday. This is a competitive work environment. Just as I’m certain there are a few people around here who would line up for my job if they thought they could.”

  “Earlier, Alan implied that you’d like to see Jamal replace him,” Brad said.

  “Jamal is a friend of mine,” she said evenly. “I moved to Philadelphia from a similar position in Baltimore. I knew Jamal when he worked there, and I encouraged him to apply. I think friendship is important. That’s why I’m asking you, Brad, to shift your focus from trying to investigate a crime at this hospital to helping your friend. I hope you understand my position,” she said, “It’s nothing personal against you.”

  “You’ve made a choice, and let’s not kid ourselves—it has more to do with public relations than public responsibility.”

  “It does not,” she said in a soft but intense voice.

  Brad weighed his next comment carefully. He already felt that he had her tacit approval to remain at the hospital, if only to tend to Alan’s emotional equilibrium. “Danita, I’m a private investigator. One of the reasons I so readily offered my help to Alan when he called me was because of all he has suffered lately. I hear you saying that I can stay to help Alan, but ignore any evidence of a serial killer in your midst.”

  “Our security force will take care of—.”

  “I can easily pursue this matter in other ways.”

  Harris furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”