by Robin Cook
“I promise,” Kim said. He reached over and gave Tracy’s forearm a squeeze before getting out of the car.
“I’ll wait to make sure your car starts,” Tracy said.
“Good idea,” Kim said. “And thanks.” He shut the door. He waved before heading over to his car.
Tracy waved back and wondered if she was doing the right thing.
Kim opened his car door, but didn’t get right in. He looked at Higgins and Hancock and shuddered at the memory of the previous night. The terror he’d felt running from the man with the knife came flooding back. It was an experience he knew he’d never forget.
Kim started to get into the car but hesitated again. For a brief moment, he entertained the idea of talking with the guard on duty to find out how to get in touch with Curt, the guard from the previous night. But Tracy’s admonition immediately came to mind, and Kim decided she was right. If Curt were willing to lie to the police about Marsha’s presence, he certainly wouldn’t be apt to tell the truth to Kim. And the fact that he probably was lying meant there was more to this affair than might appear on the surface.
Kim’s car started with ease, and he waved at Tracy who waved back before preceding him out of the parking lot. Kim followed at a distance, rethinking their recent conversation. He thought it was ironic that the awful events of the last few days—Becky’s death and his having come close to being murdered—could end up making him feel closer to Tracy than he had in years, maybe even ever.
They parted company on the freeway. Kim beeped his horn in farewell. Tracy beeped back as she sped away toward her neighborhood. Kim took the exit appropriate for the med center.
On Sundays the doctors’ parking lot was almost empty, and Kim was able to park close to the front entrance. As he climbed out of his car he told himself the first order of business was for him to go directly up to the surgical locker room. He wanted to clean up, shave, and change into the street clothes he’d left there Friday morning.
Martha Trumbull and George Constantine were both in their early seventies, and both had been faithful volunteers at the University Medical Center long enough to have been awarded the prestigious Friends of the Hospital service pins. Martha proudly wore hers on the front of her pink volunteer smock, whereas George wore his on the lapel of his cerulean volunteer blazer.
Martha and George’s favorite assignment was manning the information desk in the hospital lobby. They particularly liked to work there on Sunday when they had it to themselves. On the other days of the week, a paid hospital employee was in charge.
Taking their roles seriously, they not only knew the layout of the hospital with the same detail as the floor plans of their own homes, but they also knew the names of the entire hospital professional staff. When Kim came through the door on his way to the elevator, they both thought they recognized him yet they weren’t a hundred-percent certain.
Martha glanced at George. “Is that Dr. Reggis?” she whispered.
“I think so,” George said. “But I can’t imagine what he’s been doing in that white coat, unless he had to change a tire.”
“I think the beard looks worse than the coat,” Martha said. “Someone should tell him, because he’s such a nice-looking man.”
“Wait a second,” George said. “Weren’t we supposed to call Dr. Biddle if we saw Dr. Reggis?”
“That was yesterday,” Martha said. “You think it’s the same today?”
“Why take a chance?” George said as he reached for the phone.
To Kim’s relief the elevator was empty when he boarded it on the ground floor, and he was able to ride solo all the way to the surgical floor. He wasn’t quite as lucky on his transit of the surgical lounge. There were a number of the OR nurses and on-call anesthesiologists having coffee. Although no one said anything, those assembled eyed him with curiosity.
Kim was glad to get into the surgical locker room and away from the inquiring faces. He was particularly pleased to find it vacant, and he lost no time. After rescuing his hospital I.D., a few papers and pens, plus some surgical tape from the pockets, he pulled off the coat, the scrubs, and even his underwear. Everything went into the laundry hamper.
Completely naked, Kim was shocked to catch his reflection in the mirror. His visage was far worse than he imagined. His ratty whiskers were significantly more than a five o’clock shadow but far from being a beard. And his hair was a mess, plastered down across his forehead yet standing straight up in the back, suggesting he’d just gotten out of bed.
Opening his combination lock, Kim got out the toiletries he kept in his locker and quickly shaved. Then he got into the shower with a vial of shampoo.
Kim had his head under the jet of water when he thought he heard his name called. Leaning out from the stream but with his eyes closed tightly against the suds, he listened. Someone repeated his name. The voice was definitely more authoritative than friendly.
Kim rinsed off the soap, then looked toward the shower entrance. He was in a common shower with four heads. Standing on the tiled threshold were Dr. Forrester Biddle, Chief of Cardiac Surgery, and Dr. Robert Rathborn, Acting Chief of the Medical Staff. They made a curious pair. In contrast to Forrester’s ascetic gauntness, Robert was the picture of self-indulgent obesity.
“Dr. Reggis,” Robert repeated when he was confident of Kim’s attention. “As the current head of the medical staff, it is my duty to inform you that your hospital privileges have been temporarily revoked.”
“This is a curious conversation to have while I’m in the shower,” Kim said. “Or was it your specific intent to catch me naked?”
“Your glibness has never been more inappropriate,” Forrester spat. “I’ve been warning you, Dr. Reggis.”
“You couldn’t wait for five minutes?” Kim questioned.
“We felt it was important enough to inform you as soon as possible,” Robert said.
“What are the grounds?” Kim asked.
“For obstructive behavior during your daughter’s cardiac resuscitation attempt,” Robert said. “Three doctors and two nurses have filed formal complaints of physical intimidation by you that precluded them from carrying out their duty.”
“And I am appalled at your decision to perform open-heart cardiac massage on your own daughter,” Forrester said. “In my opinion, it is beyond the pale of acceptable professional behavior.”
“She was dying, Robert,” Kim hissed. “The closed chest massage wasn’t effective. Her pupils were dilating.”
“There were other qualified people on the scene,” Robert said sanctimoniously.
“They weren’t doing crap!” Kim snapped. “They didn’t know what the hell was going on. Nor did I until I got a look at her heart.” Kim’s voice broke, and he looked away for a moment.
“There’ll be a hearing,” Robert said. “The issue here is whether you are a threat to patients or even yourself. You’ll have an opportunity to present your side of this unfortunate episode. Meanwhile, you are not to practice any medicine within these walls, and you are specifically forbidden to do any surgery whatsoever.”
“Well, it’s good of you gentlemen to come into my office like this with such good news,” Kim said.
“I wouldn’t be so glib if I were you,” Forrester warned.
“Nor would I,” Robert said. “This incident and our action will be communicated to the Board of Medicine. You could very well find your medical license in jeopardy.”
Kim turned around so that he could present what he thought was the most appropriate part of his anatomy to his two guests. Bending forward, he went back to completing his shampoo.
The El Toro bar looked like a completely different establishment in the daylight. Without the red glow of the neon bull and without the lively, percussive sound of the Hispanic music, the ramshackle building looked abandoned. The only evidence it wasn’t were the freshly discarded beer cans scattered about the deserted parking lot.
Shanahan shook his head at the miserable scene as his bl
ack Cherokee navigated the pockmarked parking area. The rainy, foggy weather didn’t help as it blanketed the area with a dense pall. Shanahan pulled alongside Carlos’s truck whose condition matched the surroundings.
Carlos climbed out of his truck and came around to Shanahan’s driver’s-side window. It was heavily tinted, and Carlos could only see his own reflection until Shanahan lowered it.
With no greeting and no explanation, Shanahan handed Carlos a hundred-dollar bill.
Carlos looked at the money then back at Shanahan. “What’s this?” he said. “You told me two hundred. The woman’s been taken care of just like we talked about.”
“You messed up,” Shanahan said. “It wasn’t clean. We heard about the doctor. You should have done him. You knew he was there looking for the woman.”
“I tried,” Carlos said.
“What do you mean, tried?” Shanahan asked with derision. “You’re supposed to have this great reputation with a knife. The guy was unarmed.”
“I didn’t have time,” Carlos said. “He set off the silent alarm when he broke in, and the police got there before I could finish him. I was lucky to get rid of her blood and stuff.”
“What did you do with her car?” Shanahan asked.
“It’s in my cousin’s garage,” Carlos said.
“We’ll pick it up,” Shanahan said. “I don’t want anybody using it. It’s got to be junked.”
“Nobody’s going to use it,” Carlos said.
“What about her phone?” Shanahan asked.
“I got that in my truck,” Carlos said.
“Get it!” Shanahan ordered.
Dutifully Carlos returned to his truck. A minute later he was back at Shanahan’s window. Carlos handed the cell phone to the security man.
Shanahan tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. “I hope I don’t have to ask you if you made any calls.”
Carlos raised his dark eyebrows innocently but didn’t respond verbally.
Shanahan closed his eyes, put a hand to his forehead, and shook his head in dismay. “Please tell me you didn’t use the phone,” he said through clenched teeth, although he already knew the answer.
When Carlos still didn’t respond, Shanahan opened his eyes and stared dumbfounded at his accomplice. He tried to control his rage. “All right, who did you call? Don’t you know they’ll be able to trace the call? How can you be so stupid?”
“I called my mother in Mexico,” Carlos admitted guiltily.
Shanahan rolled his eyes and started to worry that he would now have to get rid of Carlos. The trouble with this kind of work was that when things started to go wrong, they had a way of quickly getting out of hand.
“But my mother has no phone,” Carlos said. “I called a phone in a store where my sister works.”
“What kind of a store?” Shanahan asked.
“A big store,” Carlos said. “It sells all sorts of things.”
“Like a department store?” Shanahan asked.
“Yeah, like a department store,” Carlos said.
“When did you call?” Shanahan asked.
“Last night,” Carlos said. “The store is open late on Saturday night, and my mother always goes to walk my sister home.”
“Where in Mexico?” Shanahan asked.
“Mexico City,” Carlos said.
Shanahan felt relieved. An anonymous call to a large store in the most populous city in the world wasn’t much of a lead.
“And that was the only call?” Shanahan asked.
“Yeah, man,” Carlos said. “Just one call.”
“Let’s get back to the doctor,” Shanahan said. “Does he know what happened to the woman?”
“Probably,” Carlos said. “He saw her blood.”
“One way or the other, he’s a threat,” Shanahan said. “He’s got to go. We’ll pay you the other hundred plus three hundred extra to do the job. What do you say?”
“When?” Carlos asked.
“Tonight,” Shanahan said. “We know where he lives, and he lives alone. It’s in the Balmoral section of town.”
“I don’t know,” Carlos said. “He’s a big guy.”
“With the reputation you have, I didn’t think that would matter,” Shanahan said.
“It’s not the killing that will be hard,” Carlos said. “It’s getting rid of the body and the blood.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Shanahan said. “Just do the trick and walk out. Maybe you could make it look like a robbery by taking money and valuables. Just don’t take anything that can be traced.”
“I don’t know,” Carlos said. “The police don’t like us Mexicans driving around in the Balmoral neighborhood. I’ve been stopped up there.”
“Listen, Carlos,” Shanahan said. He was quickly losing his patience. “You don’t have a lot of choice at this juncture. You screwed up last night. As I understand it you had plenty of time to kill the doctor. Besides, you don’t even have a green card.”
Carlos shifted his weight and rubbed his upper arms against the damp cold. He had no coat and was still wearing his leather vest without a shirt.
“What’s the address?” Carlos asked with resignation.
“That’s more like it,” Shanahan said as he handed over a typed three-by-five card.
Defying the revocation of his hospital privileges by the medical staff as delivered by Robert Rathborn, Kim went around the hospital and visited all his in-patients. He spent the most time with Friday’s post-ops. As Tom Bridges had promised, he’d been following all the patients closely. Kim was pleased that all were doing well and without complications. By the time Kim left the hospital it was mid-afternoon.
Kim had considered trying to call Kelly Anderson to arrange a meeting but then decided it would be better just to drop in. Besides, he didn’t have her phone number, and he rationalized it was undoubtedly unlisted.
Kelly Anderson lived in a prairie-style house in the Christie Heights section of town. It wasn’t quite as upscale as Balmoral but it was close. Kim pulled to the curb and stopped. He turned off the ignition and gazed at the house. It took him a moment to build up his courage. For Kim, coming to Kelly Anderson was akin to conniving with the devil herself. He felt he needed her but certainly didn’t like her.
Kim trudged up to the front door; realizing that there was a very good chance he would not even make it across the threshold.
Caroline, Kelly’s precocious daughter, opened the door. For a moment, Kim could not find his voice. The child brought back the unwelcome image of Becky in the ICU.
Kim heard a man’s voice from inside the house, asking Caroline who was there.
“I don’t know,” Caroline yelled back over her shoulder. “He won’t talk.”
“I’m Doctor Reggis,” Kim managed.
Edgar Anderson appeared behind his daughter. He was an academic-appearing fellow, with heavy dark-rimmed glasses. He was wearing an oversized, elbow-patched cardigan sweater. A pipe hung from the corner of his mouth.
“Can I help you?” Edgar inquired.
Kim repeated his name and asked to speak to Kelly Anderson.
Edgar introduced himself as Kelly’s husband and invited Kim inside. He showed him into the living room, which had the appearance of never being used.
“I’ll let her know you are here,” Edgar said. “Please sit down. Can I offer you anything? Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Kim said. He felt self-conscious, as if he were a mendicant. He lowered himself onto an immaculate couch.
Edgar disappeared, but Caroline stayed to stare at Kim from behind a club chair. Kim could not look at her without thinking about Becky.
Kim was relieved when Kelly swept into the room.
“My, my,” she intoned. “This is curious. The fox chasing the hound. Sit down, please!” Kim had gotten to his feet when she’d entered. She plopped into the club chair. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?” she added.
“Could we speak alone?
” Kim asked.
Acting as if she had been unaware Caroline was in the room, Kelly told her daughter to find something entertaining to do.
As soon as Caroline had left, Kim started by telling about Becky’s death. Kelly’s glib demeanor changed immediately. She was obviously deeply moved.
Kim told Kelly the whole story, including the details of the discussions he’d had with Kathleen Morgan and Marsha Baldwin. He told her about his visit and arrest at the Onion Ring restaurant. He even told her about the harrowing episode in Higgins and Hancock, culminating in his second arrest.
When Kim fell silent, Kelly exhaled and leaned back. She shook her head. “What a story,” she said. “And what a tragedy for you. But what brings you to me? I assume there is something you want me to do.”
“Obviously,” Kim said. “I want you to do a story about all this. It’s something the public needs to know. And I want to get out the message about Marsha Baldwin. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced there’s a conspiracy here. If she’s alive, the sooner she’s found the better.”
Kelly chewed the inside of her cheek while she pondered Kim’s request. There were some intriguing elements to the story, but there were also some problems. After a few moments, she shook her head. “Thank you for coming by and telling me all this, but I’m not interested from a professional point of view: at least not at this time.”
Kim’s face fell. As he’d told the story, he’d become progressively convinced of its merit, and Kelly’s rapid negative decision came as a disappointing surprise. “Can you tell me why?” he questioned.
“Sure,” Kelly said. “As much as I sympathize with you about the tragic loss of your darling, talented daughter, it’s not the kind of TV journalism I generally do. I go after harder, bigger stories, if you know what I mean.”
“But this is a big story,” Kim complained. “Becky died of E. coli O157:H7. This has become a worldwide problem.”
“True,” Kelly admitted. “But it’s only one case.”
“That’s the point,” Kim said. “Only one case so far. I’m convinced she got it at the Onion Ring restaurant on Prairie Highway. I’m afraid she’s going to turn out to be the index case of what could be a big outbreak.”
