Corruption in the Or

by Barbara Ebel

  “What do you mean?”

  “He owns the Stay Long Hotel and employs the handymen doing the work, including Fred, the man on the ventilator. Who, by the way, has a stash of drug vials in his trailer. This Casey guy is also a slumlord, and owns lots of low-income housing projects outside of his nine-to-five.”

  Dumbfounded, Viktoria dropped her leg to the floor. “Like vials from the OR?”

  “We assume so.”

  “You could talk to the anesthesia tech in the OR who does the ordering. Lot numbers are stamped on vials purchased and you could compare them with the ones you confiscated.”

  “Perfect. Text me the direct number. In the meantime, we’ll be getting a search warrant for this Casey nurse.”

  “It’s becoming clearer how he affords the house and property he owns with his new wife, the other CRNA.”

  “In Masonville?”

  “Wait until you see. I’m from Long Island where there are politicians and actors’ estates to the east and their places aren’t even that gorgeous.”

  “Sounds like we’re in for an eye-opening visit. Is this couple at work in the hospital today?”

  “Sure are. You’ll have the place to yourself.”

  “Can’t wait,” he said and laughed. “We’ll be in touch, and thanks so much for your help.”

  “Would you mind keeping my name out of this?”

  “Don’t know what name you’re talking about.”

  They ended the call and Viktoria took a big breath. Her arms quivered as she put her phone away. Sooner or later, the vibrant, successful newlyweds were going to get what they deserved.

  -----

  For the second time that day, Buster and Patrick held a search warrant. Their GPS took them down a long, beautiful street that they never knew existed in Masonville. As Patrick drove, he gulped down the coffee he’d bought at the drive-through window, while Buster still blew on his to cool it off.

  “I don’t get it,” Buster said. “How you finish drinking down steaming hot coffee while I haven’t even started mine. Is your mouth immune to heat, like a heat-resistant thermos or something?”

  “My oral mucosa is normal. Your mouth is what’s sissified.”

  “Sissified? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Girlish. You’ve got a prissy mouth.”

  “Damn. Good thing we’re partners and get along, except for our stark difference in the ability to consume coffee, otherwise I’d pull my gun out at you.”

  Patrick shrugged and then grinned at Buster. The DEA officer pulled forward to the first visual of Casey and Jennie Johnston’s home and the two officers exchanged glances. Patrick whistled.

  “I smell a drug bust,” Buster said as they parked in the circular drive, and set foot between two manicured areas of knockout roses. Patrick took the steps first and rang the doorbell on the great door.

  “They’re at work,” Buster said, still nursing his coffee.

  The door opened to a chunky woman with love handles testing the sewing job of her black top. With a look of surprise, she stared at Patrick’s DEA emblem.

  “Ma’am, are the owner’s home?” Patrick asked.

  “No, can I give them a message?”

  “If you would like. However, we came with a search warrant and would like to come in. We are Drug Enforcement Agents here to do a job.” He showed her his paperwork. With skepticism, she narrowed her eyes.

  Buster opened his wallet and showed her his official badge. Then he pointed to the judge’s signature on the warrant. “This is official ma’am. Here is the presiding judge’s signature for us to come in and take a look around.”

  Fidgeting with her hands, she stepped back and allowed Patrick to enter and go his own way. She hurried back to the kitchen, wanting to use the landline phone to call Jennie.

  The sound of the agents’ footsteps echoed in the foyer. “My first choice is to check the office over here,” Patrick said. “Why don’t you go search the bedroom?”

  Buster nodded, knowing his partner may not be skilled at drinking coffee, but he was aware of the likely places that crooks stash their loot. He stared at the artwork on the wall on his way up the circular staircase to the second floor. Although the stuff must cost a fortune, he thought, there was no accounting for taste.

  Entering the master bedroom, the king bed was unmade, so he figured the housekeeper had not made up the room yet. He began opening closets and drawers, and peeked behind art on the wall for any wall safes. Nothing suspicious turned up, so he sat on a cozy armchair and scanned the room visually again.

  His eyes locked on the platform-style bed. He stepped over and held up a corner of the mattress. Sure enough, there was no box spring, just a full board underneath which the mattress rested on. Which also meant he couldn’t see between the board and the carpet underneath. The oak base of the bed wrapped around the entire bottom periphery of the bed, but that didn’t stop him from investigating.

  On his hands and knees, Buster evaluated the side board closest to him—all one single solid piece of wood. Nothing unusual. He crawled around the corner to the bottom where he noticed the pane split into two. Putting his fingers under the oak in front of him and prying, it was solidly in place. He scooted over to the other side, and wiggled his finger between the board and carpet and pulled forward. The pane raised with a smooth motion, a clever mechanism in place on both upper corners.

  Buster wiggled his hand into his pants pocket for the light on his key chain and shined it into the dark space. What he saw looked like a large plastic shoe organizer for underneath a bed, so he frowned with disappointment and pulled it forwards.

  He sat back on his haunches to see his hunch was correct. It was a shoe organizer with twelve adjustable dividers and a zippered closure with a semi-clear window. His cop instinct ramped up because he detected no bulkiness or unevenness to whatever shoes were inside.

  Starting from the side, Buster unzipped the organizer and peeled back the cover. Some shoes! he thought, allowing a smile to light up his face.

  Instead of twelve pairs of shoes, the almost three foot by three-foot container held high-end narcotics and sedatives. Even propofol vials.

  “Bingo!” Buster exclaimed. “Straight from the operating room!”

  -----

  Jennie’s housekeeper, Marybelle, positioned herself by the kitchen wall and picked up the landline phone. Working for the Johnston’s for one year, and being severely devoted to her successful, rich employers, she could not fathom why two law enforcement men had come in with a warrant to search the couple’s home. Jennie and Casey were totally fair and appreciative bosses, always empathetic if she came forward with a special request for a day off or a last-minute emergency. She had also agreed, when they had made the request, that she should contact them if ever anyone showed up that seemed to have no business being there.

  She had a stronger bond with the female of the house, so she dialed Jennie’s cell phone number, something she rarely did. Her employer answered immediately.

  “Marybelle,” Jennie said with dread in her voice, “is everything alright?”

  “Two men are here at the house. They showed me a piece of paper, a search warrant. I let them in because it appeared to be genuine.”

  Jennie gasped into the phone while her heartbeat galloped faster than her monitored patient stimulated by surgery. She held the phone tightly trying not to sound alarmed. “Are they cops?”

  “Drug Enforcement Agents. This is crazy. Why would they be here?”

  Jennie stared at her patient under a general anesthetic and wished she were unconscious like her patient. The reality of what her housekeeper just said was unbearable. She was always the one a bit leary of the “business” she and Casey ran on the side but, nevertheless, she had participated of her own free will. The idea of those guys at her house was damn scary. Yet, were they as smart as Casey to discover his hiding place for drugs?

  Marybelle was still on the line, as Jennie also realize
d for the first time that the DEA could use drug dogs when and if needed. Could their trained dogs detect drugs that came in glass vials? She shivered realizing that she knew nothing concrete about the law enforcement or legal aspects of what they had been doing. Certainly, they’d be in trouble and their jobs would be in jeopardy, but it was not like they were street drug pushers jeopardizing the lives of young people.

  “Marybelle, try not to worry. They must have made some kind of mistake. Please text me soon with any developments at all. Like if they are taking anything out of the house, or if they say they’re finished. Anything at all. I’ll let Casey know what’s going on.”

  Jennie gave it another thought. “Where are they right now?”

  “One of ‘em is upstairs and one of them is down here. But the one in the master bedroom just called for the other one to go up there to see something.”

  Jennie thought she’d stroke. A crushing pain enveloped her head, and she gritted her teeth. “I better let you go,” she said, “text me instead of calling.”

  She ended the call and immediately scrolled to Casey’s number and hit “message.” At one time, they had discussed an emergency text to use for each other. Although she had never had an occasion to use it, she went to numbers and typed “7777.” The lucky numbers were an alert, warning Casey that she meant just the opposite of a lucky situation. He would understand that something was terribly wrong.

  -----

  Patrick stood over the couple’s drug loot that Buster had pulled out from underneath the master bed. He lowered himself on the mattress and looked up at his partner. “People’s ingenuity ceases to amaze me.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got them red-handed. This’ll be a damn quick closure of a case if we acquire more definitive proof about these drugs. I’m good for working straight through this evening. We can bring the rich Masonville couple in before they try something stupid. How about we split up? One of us should go to the Hospital’s OR. Follow up on what Dr. Thorsdottir mentioned checking vial lot numbers with the technician there. That way, when we bring them in, we practically have all the proof we need. A lawyer can hardly help them weasel out of this one.”

  “I’m in. Nice work finding this stuff.” Patrick took out a notepad and began writing down at least one vial number of each lot housed in each shoe section. “I’ll go to the hospital. You call the office and ask for help to confiscate all this stuff.”

  “Sure thing. Plus, I have to scout around for other drug paraphernalia. My take on this is that the owners of this house are pretty smart. They avoided doing drugs themselves, and unloaded them on other sorrowful souls who sought to ruin their own lives in a cloud of amnesia and mental impairment. Wasted enough to need life support on a ventilator.”

  Patrick nodded. “They weren’t smart enough to not get caught. However, I wish it had been sooner.” He turned and checked out the walls again. “They do have decent taste in artwork.”

  “I wouldn’t hang this stuff in my house if my life depended on it.”

  “Artwork is in the eye of the beholder. You need your vision checked.”

  “Says you,” Buster said, getting in the last word as his partner left.

  Downstairs, Patrick stopped in the kitchen and ran the faucet for a glass of water. Marybelle sat motionless on a stool, one hand gripping her iPhone resting on the counter.

  “Have you contacted them?” Patrick asked.

  The housekeeper’s eyes widened. “Surely I had to. If I hadn’t, they could fire me for letting strangers in, cops searching the place, without telling them. You must understand, I am a faithful employee, and this job is what pays my bills.”

  Patrick gazed into her eyes as her face scrunched up like she was ready to cry. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Your employers may have a rocky time of it in the near future. I would start looking for another job if I were you.”

  CHAPTER 30

  At three o’clock, Viktoria reported her cases in progress to Everett Benson, who was the late doctor of the day behind Jay Huff’s night on call. She checked on Bobby Glade as the orderly began steering him out of the recovery room.

  “Hey, doc,” he said. “Nice job with that anesthesia. Can you believe it? My leg is still a little numb and I don’t feel any pain!”

  “That’s the beauty of an epidural. Not only does it work for surgery, but it can continue postop pain relief. I’ll be by personally to check on you upstairs tomorrow.”

  “My hair will be back on, so look for the handsomest male patient on the orthopedic floor.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Viktoria shook her head as she passed the front desk where Jay Huff sat discussing after hour cases with the head nurse. “Enjoy the evening,” he commented as she paused.

  “Many add-ons for the evening?”

  “An emergency burr hole and two orthopedic cases so far.”

  “Hope your night is manageable.”

  She went straight to the locker room where she changed into street clothes. An RN wished her a pleasant evening, making her grateful that the hostility she felt the previous week had somewhat diminished.

  Wearing tan cargo pants, blue sneakers, and a smart polyester blouse, she set off for the hallway, heading for the elevator.

  -----

  Patrick had no use for hospitals. Splitting up with Buster to go to Masonville General Hospital was a fine idea, however, he wanted nothing to do with sick people. When he entered the lobby, he went straight to the information desk where a woman sat wearing a pink volunteer smock. “If I need to speak to someone in charge associated with the operating room, but without subjecting myself to patients, where should I go and whom should I talk to?”

  The elderly gray-haired woman stared at him for a moment—official uniformed men were a rarity at her counter. “See Mr. Appleton, the Director of Surgical Services. His office is in the hallway on the second floor before you get to the OR.”

  “Thank you.” Patrick rode the elevator dodging the scrutinizing glances from fellow riders. On the second floor, he took off down the corridor and easily found the nameplate on the wall for Jeffrey’s office. The door was slightly ajar, so he rapped lightly and peered inside.

  Jeffrey glanced up from his desk, his countenance changing when he saw the man in a uniform, and he stood up. “Come in.”

  “Patrick McCormick with the Drug Enforcement Agency.” He grasped Jeff’s hand and shook firmly. Each man stood over six feet, but Patrick was built like a heavyweight boxer compared to Jeff’s trim physique. “The volunteer at the information desk downstairs suggested I start with you.”

  Jeffrey furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side. In the hallway, Viktoria passed, but she stopped and peered back into his office. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said to Jeff, “but have a nice night.”

  Patrick spun around. “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Thorsdottir.”

  “You two know each other?” Jeff asked.

  Viktoria stepped into the office. “I met Patrick and his partner up in the ICU.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for this astute doctor’s lead. There’s a problem, Mr. Appleton, and I’m here to track down drugs believed to be stolen from your operating room. This young doctor suggested we check lot numbers from the anesthesia technician. What she doesn’t know is that we’ve confiscated a pot of gold—fentanyl, sufentanyl, midazolam, and propofol—at the home of two people who apparently work here.”

  Speechless, Jeffrey let his jaw drop. He looked back and forth between Patrick and Dr. Thorsdottir and then settled his gaze on Viktoria. “You’ve been figuring this out in addition to the most-likely reimbursement scam?”

  She grinned and nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “What reimbursement scam?” Patrick asked. “Is that something the DEA or cops need to know about?”

  “We’ll keep this problem internal,” Jeff answered, “but thanks for asking.”

  “Suit yourself. Would one of yo
u mind pointing me in the correct direction and introducing me to the anesthesia technician, so I can begin asking her or him questions?”

  “I’m out of scrubs,” Viktoria said, “but we can access the anesthesia supply room from a back door not through the OR.”

  “Viktoria, are you sure?” Jeff asked. “Aren’t you on your way out? I could show him.”

  “I’ll get the ball rolling. I must tell you something on my way back out, but maybe you can check on Mr. McCormick here in a few minutes to make sure he’s getting everything he needs.”

  “Okay. See you shortly.”

  Viktoria led Patrick through the hallway and a non-sterile area. The door to the workroom was open. She was glad she guided him back so as not to prance him through any of the main areas where word would be out that the DEA was in the OR. She wondered if Jennie and Casey would think about why the DEA man was there. If the couple made a connection to their anesthesia drug activities, would they be a flight risk or make every effort to cover their tracks?

  The anesthesia tech was not present, so Viktoria texted her number and asked her to stop by the workroom. Soon an animated young woman with a long ponytail scrunched under a bonnet came strutting in. Nervously, she put her hand over her mouth upon seeing someone official-looking in her work space.

  “Tina, this is a DEA officer, Patrick McCormick. He has some questions to ask you. His visit is also okay with Mr. Appleton, but don’t gossip about this to anyone in the OR. What he needs to ask you is confidential and important.”

  “Okay, Dr. Thorsdottir. I’ll help in any way I can.” She straightened her shoulders, now feeling extremely important.

  “Thanks,” Patrick said to both of them.

  Viktoria shuffled out, straight back to Jeff’s office. Once inside, she pulled the door fully shut. “I can’t afford for anyone to overhear me.”

  This time, Jeff came around and leaned against his mahogany desk. “Viktoria, I am overwhelmed by your moral standards and am shocked over what I just heard.”