Transplanted Death Page 9

  Ken clasped his hands in front of himself, and Brad spotted a gold collegiate-style ring with a sapphire stone. “He still jogs three miles every morning, at least that’s what he told me the last time I asked him how he was feeling. We spent a lot of time together when Mom was in the hospital, but we weren’t talking much.” Ken loosened his tie and undid the top button on his shirt. “We were kinda wrapped up in ourselves, I guess. She had four crushed vertebrae from the accident and a lot of internal injuries. Her spleen, right kidney, and part of her liver had to be surgically removed, and there was internal bleeding that they couldn’t stop. After the first twenty-four hours the surgeons told us Mom’s prospects weren’t good. We spent ten long days saying goodbye.” Tears welled in his eyes. Brad hadn’t intended to make Ken uncomfortable.

  “I wasn’t used to seeing my dad so… powerless,” Ken said. “He was the rock that Mom and I turned to for help. But he just sat there for hours beside her bed, holding her hand. Helpless in the end.”

  Brad leaned toward Ken and in an empathetic tone asked, “Did Marie—your mother—was she conscious?”

  Ken lowered his gaze. “She regained consciousness thirty-six hours after the accident.” He drew in a big breath and exhaled. “She stayed conscious until about twelve hours before she died. But most of the time they had her heavily sedated or she was on a respirator and couldn’t talk very much.”

  “The last I heard,” Brad said, “the guy who killed her lived.” Life is full of ironies, he thought.

  Ken clenched his hands into fists. “Yes, the bastard lived. I heard he was paralyzed, though. After the accident I saw the two cars at the police impound lot. He rammed a stolen Audi into the rear of my mother’s car at ninety miles an hour. The police said his car flipped three times. He had a blood alcohol level of .14 and his New Jersey driver’s license was under suspension. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but there have been a few times in the last month when I wanted to find out where he was and kill him.” Ken dragged the back of his still clenched hand over his left eye. “Life isn’t fair.”

  Brad knew the pain and anger of losing loved ones. In his case the senseless double-murder of his mother and sister. “I can understand why you might feel that way.” He hoped his words might be cathartic.

  Brad weighed whether to ask his next question, and finally decided that Ken was a ‘big boy’ and if not already aware, he might be soon enough. “Do you know of any problems your dad might be having here at the hospital?”

  “Nothing specific,” Ken quickly responded. “Dad hasn’t said anything, and I haven’t heard of problems through the grapevine. Should I start listening for some?” Ken smiled.

  “Well, he doesn’t always see eye-to-eye with people around here.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I’m on my way to see Alan now,” Brad added. “You want to come along?”

  Ken gave a sideways glance out the window at the storm. “I better get to the subway.” Ken stood and pulled on his coat. “It’s good to see you Mr. Frame. I’ll be back in the morning. Feel free to stop by my office.”

  Brad watched as Ken walked to the door, pulled the waterproof hood over his head, and gave a final wave before braving the winter storm. Then it struck him, he hadn’t provided details of why he was there, and wondered why Ken would assume that he’d still be around in the morning.

  Chapter Eleven

  9:20 p.m., Wednesday, January 10th

  I wanted a Red Bull so much I could practically taste it. My energy level needed a boost, and the caffeine would help the Advil I was about to take to chase away my headache. Hospitals give me headaches; I swear it’s the antiseptic in the air.

  A hand-lettered sign on the door to the cafeteria noted it would be open twenty-four hours during the emergency with “limited options.” Red Bull wasn’t one of them. Yeah, I know, they meant limited foodoptions, and Red Bull was never on their menusince all their drinks were fountain dispensed. I settled for a Coke. One worker behind the counter was doing his best to push the chicken strips and fries, served with creamed corn for the truly adventurous.

  I paid for my drink, filled the cup, and sat near the door to watch people entering or exiting. I fished the bottle of Advil from my purse and popped two tablets, washing them down with the soda. There weren’t more than a half-dozen hospital staff scattered about the tables, picking at their food, lost in thought, and giving worried glances at the snow storm raging outside the windows. None of them looked like a serial killer.

  I sipped my soda and thought about my assignment to find hotel rooms. Did they even make Yellow Pages anymore? And where would I find it at the hospital? I could call 1-800 directory assistance and get the numbers for the major chains, Hilton, Sheraton, Wyndham, Marriott, and Holiday Inn. Then I remembered my smartphone and started to do a search. Damn. I couldn’t access the Internet, or hadn’t found the right hot spot.

  A twenty-something sauntered into the caf looking buff in his green scrubs, with cute dimples and a cleft in his chin that looked like he’d been struck by a golf wedge. Where was he when I attended college? Oh yeah… third grade!

  “Excuse me,” I stopped him. “Does the hospital have Internet access?”

  “Sure,” he eagerly replied, “you can get free Wi-Fi anywhere.”

  Well, not anywhere; I’d tried. “I meant is there a computer that I could access.”

  He looked stumped, and stroked the cleft in his chin with his thumb. “Oh yeah. Maternity has two computers. There might be a charge.” As if reading my mind, he added, “Third floor.”

  Maternity could have been the quietest floor in the hospital. I found one nurse at her station, opposite the elevators, in the exact same location as on the seventh floor. I asked about a computer, and she pointed me toward the pitch-dark sunroom. I snapped on overhead recessed lights and spotted computers in back-to-back study desks like I’d used at my college library. It made sense to have PCs located in this department, where newbie fathers could broadcast their happy news to the world. I pulled up a chair, moved the mouse and the screen came to life. There was a $5 charge for the first five minutes, and $1 for every three minutes afterward. I swiped the agency credit card on the card reader, mounted on the side of the screen, and immediately began searching a popular website for downtown Philadelphia hotels.

  I inserted the current date, requested two non-smoking rooms, within two miles of the 19107 Zip Code, and added an additional parameter of three-star or betterBrad wouldn’t want to stay in a dumpthen hit search. The screen showed a hypnotic whirling disk as it made its search, followed by a ding, and the message “No properties were found that meet your search criteria.”

  Hmmm… Time to expand my search. I did the same search, but asked for hotels within a five mile radius. I got the same message. I knew how the Baby Jesus felt, or rather Mary and Joseph, when they found no room at the inn.

  I got the brilliant idea to search for the following day, see what hotels were listed, and then call them about available rooms for that night. Seven choices appeared, starting with the five-star Ritz-Carlton; of course they were listed from the most expensive, but Brad could afford it, so no worries. I busily copied phone numbers, logged off the computer, and began to call.

  The Ritz-Carlton would be perfect. If cabs weren’t available we could walk, well… slog there, and their list of amenities included overnight laundry; how nice it would be to start our work in the morning in freshly cleaned clothes. They probably had terrycloth robes hanging on the back of the bathroom door; I could practically smell the fabric softener. I dialed the number, and it rang eight times before anyone picked up.

  “Ritz-Carlton Philadelphia, how may I direct your call,” a pleasant but harried voice answered.

  “Reservations.”

  “Thanks, I’ll connect you.”

  Twelve rings later, I heard, “Hotel Reservations, how may I help?” A foreign sounding voice made me wonder if I was speaking to a person
in the Ritz or at a call center in Lahore, Pakistan, where they weren’t having the biggest snow storm in the history of mankind.

  “Yes, I’d like to reserve two rooms.”

  “For what date?”

  “Tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have any rooms available for tonight at,” she paused before saying, “the Philadelphia Ritz-Carlton.” It sounded like Callerton.

  “Nothing?” I realized afterward that it may have sounded like I was shrieking.

  “I’m very sorry. Is there another date I could help you with?”

  I ended the call.

  Unfortunately, the story repeated itself over the next five hotel calls. I tried to be hopeful as I dialed my last choice, a Marriott nearly five miles north of the city.

  “Thank you for calling Marriott,” said a resonant baritone.

  “I’d like to make a reservation for tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. We’re completely booked.” He added, “We had plenty of rooms until about 3 p.m., but then the storm caused lots of people to abandon I-95.”

  “Do you know of anything in the area?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

  “The Marriott in Conshohoken still has a couple rooms. At least they did five minutes ago. You can call them at 610-941”

  “That’s okay,” I cut him off. It would be easier to get back to Bryn Mawr.

  I prepared to find Brad and share the bad news that we were stuck at the hospital.

  I’d never been stranded before, and it was an odd sensation of feeling trapped. I turned and stared at the windows. A recessed light directly overhead lit my face so that the reflection in the darkened window looked more like a hologram than a mirror image. It looked the way I felt: fuzzy, unclear, almost ghostlike.

  It would be a long night.

  Chapter Twelve

  9:35 p.m., Wednesday, January 10th

  Brad found the waiting area at the Strickland Memorial Hospital’s Emergency Room, identified himself to the receptionist, and asked to see Dr. Fenimore.

  Apparently the woman was used to fielding requests for treatment, asking for insurance cards and ID, but had no clue about Dr. Fenimore. Undeterred, she shoved a clipboard at him and asked him to write his name and have a seat.

  “He’s the hospital’s medical director,” Brad said, which only seemed to make her stare at him like he might be a mental case. She glanced in the direction of one of Carlton’s security guards, who sat on a stool behind the counter more interested in what was happening at the other end of the hallway.

  “But this is the emergency room,” she said, like he’d lost his way.

  “Yes, I know,” Brad said, trying to stay civil. “I understand he’s working in the ER tonight due to the snow emergency.”

  She tapped the clipboard with a blue polished nail. “Sign here, and have a seat.”

  Brad signed his name, as legibly as possible, and placed the clipboard back on the counter.

  The receptionist studied his name, and without looking up, said, “There are five people ahead of you.”

  Brad gritted his teeth and found a seat with his back against the wall, where he could observe the entrance and the receptionist. Arranged in front of him were several rows of seats, and at least a dozen people waiting, including a mother with baby in arms, a man holding a bloody handkerchief at his nose, a teenager with her arm in a sling, an elderly couple with the woman in a wheelchair, and several others that just looked plain miserable. Brad figured he looked miserable too, but at least he felt okay.

  He imagined that walk-in traffic during the storm would be far lighter than normal, and most nights at that hour the room would be filled to capacity. Emergency rooms had become the de facto means of medical care for millions of Americans, many of whom could not afford a private physician. Unless a person arrived by ambulance, getting care meant waiting in line, often for hours.

  On the far side of the room a children’s play area sat empty, and a wall mounted TV was tuned to a network sitcom, but few people paid attention. One man fed coins into a vending machine and retrieved a bag of potato chips.

  A door swung open, a nurse appeared carrying a file folder. All eyes turned to her expectantly as she called out, “Hughes. Mandy Hughes.”

  A man seated across from him gazed up at the ceiling and muttered, “Son-of-a-bitch.”

  The teen with the sling got up from her seat, along with the man next to her, who Brad supposed was her dad. The nurse had already slipped inside, but the patient appeared to know the drill and headed for the door.

  Brad now knew how the term “patient” came to apply to those receiving medical care. He found himself fidgeting with this watch as the same women reappeared every seven or eight minutes, called out another name, and expected the patient to follow her through the door. He pulled out his phone, thinking he might try calling Alan, when the woman appeared once more, and called his name. The man across from him, who’d been waiting longer, glared at Brad and cursed.

  This time the nurse waited, and when he caught up with her at the door, she said, “Dr. Fenimore apologizes. He knows you’ve been waiting, but he’s been a little busy. He has time to see you now.”

  Brad followed her through the door, past several curtained treatment areas, and around the corner to a small, windowless consulting room, bathed in fluorescent light. He recognized Alan’s briefcase propped against the wall.

  “Have a seat. Doctor will be right with you.” He half expected her to tell him to strip to his skivvies.

  The sparsely furnished room had a desk and three chairs. On the desk were a couple of reference books, a plastic water bottle, and a calendar/desk pad. The walls held an anatomical drawing of the human body, and an eye chart. Brad busied himself by covering each eye and tried to read the smallest line, which he accomplished easily. Of course, he was only six feet away from the letters, designed for a greater distance.

  “I thought Harris kicked you out,” Alan said, as he entered the room and sat behind a small desk facing Brad.

  Brad rubbed his eyes. “There’s been a change of plans. I think we’re on track.” Brad looked around. “Mind if we close the door?”

  “Go ahead,” Alan said, as he leaned back in his chair. Brad pushed the door closed.

  The doctor plucked a stethoscope from around his neck and shoved it into the left pocket of his lab coat. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “The situation is as you feared, Alan,” Brad began. “Dr. Dubei found pancuronium bromide in two of the transplant patients who died.”

  At the mention of his nemesis’ name, Alan Fenimore scowled.

  “That’s a neuromuscular blocking agent,” Alan said.

  “Yes, Jamal explained its effect. Propofol was also used in combination with the drug to ensure the patients died quietly.”

  Alan leaned forward, with his elbow propped on the desk and his left hand covering his mouth.

  “Danita Harris has asked us to investigate on behalf of the hospital,” Brad explained.

  “Good.” Alan nodded. “I don’t know why she didn’t listen to us when we first brought it up this afternoon. I’m glad you’re finally on the payroll.”

  “Only a dollar,” Brad said, “to make it legal. She’s going to set us up in a command post on the fifth floor. I told her that I wanted to work with you, Alan. I don’t think she was too happy.”

  A wry smile cross his lips. “You don’t need me, Brad. You know what you’re doing.”

  “That’s not entirely true. Now that we know the circumstances regarding two of the deaths, it’s likely that someone on your medical staff was responsible. A plumber, security guard or cafeteria worker, even if they had a beef with the hospital, would hardly have had the means to access those particular drugs, nor the training to know their effect and in what dosages.”

  Alan rubbed his forehead and stared absently at the wall. “It’s chilling, hearing you describe it, but I guess that’s why I called you in the fir
st place.”

  “Jamal Dubei plans to test a urine specimen on Dennis Ayers to determine if he’s a victim of attempted murder.”

  “You can talk with any of the medical staff that you’d like, Brad.” Dr. Fenimore turned his head like he was trying to get rid of a kink. “By all means, you should get to the bottom of this.”

  “I intend to, Alan, with your help.”

  Their eyes met, briefly, and then Alan dropped his gaze to the floor. “Of course,” he said.

  “I have a question about this afternoon.”

  Alan looked at him and nodded. “When we were in Barbara McCullough’s room I found liquid on the floor, in the vicinity of her IV pole, and gave you a sample to be analyzed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Dubei demonstrated for us with microscopic images that the lethal injection for Ms. McCullough was administered through the dextrose bag connected to her IV line. So the small puddle of liquid I sampled was most likely a remnant of the lethal solution, or dextrose spilled out when the injection was made. But the lab reported the specimen as H2O.”

  “I remember Harris telling us that,” Alan said.

  “Then what did you do with the actual sample?” Brad asked.

  Alan rolled his chair back and looked like he had just taken a punch to the solar plexus.

  “I’m going to answer your question, Brad, because of our years of friendship. But I don’t appreciate the implications. I gave the sample you handed to me to Pedro Paez and asked him to take it to Dr. Dubei’s office for analysis—stat.”

  Brad clasped his hands in a prayerful pose under his chin. “Did you?”

  Alan Fenimore stood up, and his stool rolled and clanged into the wall. “I have answered your question.”

  Brad remained seated and softly asked, “Do you believe Pedro switched the sample you gave him before it was analyzed by Dr. Dubei?”

  Alan’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared as he exhaled. “I believe I’ve answered enough questions from you,” he shouted and reached for the doorknob.