On Call: An Original Short Story

by Michael Palmer

  “Like what?”

  “Like the company is owned by George Kincaid and Hannah Radcliffe. Apparently, it’s some sort of electronic medical records business, and the stars seem to be aligned for a huge success. You know how Kincaid is always trumpeting that electronic medical records are the future.”

  “Interesting,” Lou said.

  “I couldn’t get more details off Hoovers, so I asked a good friend from my truncated Naval Academy days if he could dig up additional intel on the company. His name’s Drew Stoddard. His father is super well off and well connected. In fact, Drew was able to confirm that recently, Annabelle Stern’s name was added to the board of the company.”

  “A true silent partner,” Paul said.

  “So,” I said, “George Kincaid was not only sleeping with Annabelle, he apparently set her up with a stake in his business. I think it’s possible that she was blackmailing him.”

  Paul read the note I scrawled soon as I left Victoria’s apartment.

  “I think this will make you very happy. That does have a slight ring of blackmail to it.”

  A sharp knock on the door made us all jump.

  Lou checked the peephole. “Hey, it’s those cops, Anderson and Rodriquez.”

  As soon as Lou had the door open, the cops were on him. I stood quickly, knocking over my chair. Before I could utter a single protest, Anderson had Lou pressed up against the wall, while Rodriquez slapped handcuffs on him and patted him down.

  “Louis Welcome,” Anderson said in his gruff cop voice. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Dr. Annabelle Stern.”

  I’d never seen Hannah Radcliffe look so distraught. We were alone in the pathology lab—both of us in mourning. Paul’s dismissal, Annabelle’s death, and now Lou’s arrest. To those intimately connected with a place like Eisenhower Memorial, the hospital itself was like an organism, growing and decaying as buildings came down and went up, and neophyte doctors learned and grew and finally moved on or advanced to the faculty—see one, do one, teach one. Even though I was considering calling it quits with medicine, I was still connected to the ebbs and flows of Eisenhower as though I were part of something truly alive. Since that orientation assembly, a part of our hospital had died a slow and painful death.

  Motherly Hannah Radcliffe felt it, as did I.

  The pathology professor, half of the first couple of the hospital, seemed to have aged a decade overnight. She was physical and emotional wreckage. Lou Welcome, perhaps her favorite resident, was locked away in a jail somewhere, denied bail because of the seriousness of the charges against him.

  Murder.

  Radcliffe was on the verge of tears. “I can’t believe that Lou…I mean…it’s inconceivable.”

  “The DNA from the tissue samples found under Annabelle’s fingernails were a ninety-nine percent match for him,” I said. “They had to make the arrest.”

  “What happens now?” Radcliffe asked.

  “Now, Lou will defend his innocence unless Annabelle’s real killer can be caught.”

  “You don’t think Lou is guilty?”

  I shook my head emphatically, but my mind could not let go of the gouges I had seen on his hands. “There are other ways to explain his tissue being found under her nails,” I said. “They had a romantic relationship, for goodness’ sake. It could have suddenly rekindled.”

  “What does that mean?” Radcliffe asked.

  “I’ve got another theory about what might have happened to Annabelle. Perhaps you should sit down before I share it.”

  Radcliffe appeared ill at ease. She took a seat as I advised, her fingers tightly interlocked. “Go ahead, please,” she said.

  “Hannah, did you know that Annabelle Stern was a one-third partner in Medtransit?”

  “That’s…that’s impossible.”

  “No, it’s true,” I said. “I had a contact of mine look into it. George made Annabelle a one-third partner in the company.”

  “Why? Why would he do that?”

  I knew Radcliffe as a woman of science, a razor-sharp intellect who viewed the world through a prism of logic. The look of complete bewilderment on her face was heartbreaking. In a matter of seconds, I had upended her neatly ordered world…and I was about to do it again.

  “I think he might have been blackmailed,” I said. “By Annabelle.”

  “Blackmailed? How would Annabelle Stern be able to blackmail my husband?”

  I didn’t say anything, figuring it would be best for Radcliffe to reach that conclusion on her own. It did not take long. Her hands covered her mouth while shock and surprise crossed her face like a storm cloud.

  “Oh, my God. George was having an affair with her?”

  I nodded. “I’m virtually certain of it. She kept letters from him to her.”

  “You have proof George killed her?”

  “No, but I’m trying to piece that together. I have a horse in this race. My best friend is in jail, and I don’t think he’s guilty. George has more of a motive for killing her than Lou, DNA or not.”

  “Oh, Gabe, what happens now?”

  “George is your husband, Hannah,” I said. “But if he’s capable of this, I believe he could be dangerous, especially when the walls start closing in. I think you should consider going away for a while, someplace safe.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m going to the police with what I know. Lou is innocent, but I’m sorry, Hannah, I don’t feel the same way about George. I think you should be careful.”

  I sat alone in my office, just down the hall from the pathology department, finishing up some work and thinking about exactly what I was going to say to Detectives Anderson and Rodriquez. Hannah Radcliffe had left her lab in tears, along with a promise to get away to her sister’s home in Saint Louis before I went to the police. As for me, I felt exhausted and still bewildered about how Lou’s DNA could have gotten under Annabelle’s nails. Had he lied to me in denying they had taken up again? Then there were those scratches and his offhand assertion that his lab rats were responsible. Still, I remained solid that my best friend was incapable of such a brutal murder.

  On the other hand, I had always liked George Kincaid, but there was no doubt that the power of his position and the wealth he had accumulated were motivating forces in his life. And a woman like Annabelle Stern was capable of driving all but the most saintly men toward madness.

  By nine, I caved into crushing psychological fatigue, and decided it was time to head home. I grabbed my bag and shuffled down the stairs. The hospital was drifting into night mode, with just a scattering of foot traffic headed from one building to another. Nearly all the buildings of Eisenhower Memorial were connected by a series of subterranean tunnels, some of which were rumored to date back a century. They were more heavily trafficked in the wintertime, but I liked to use them year-round because of the convenience of getting to the Metro several minutes faster than with the aboveground route.

  I was about halfway to my destination, on B-1, the uppermost underground level, traveling along an older, less well lit portion of the tunnel system, when I sensed movement directly behind me. As I was whirling, my eyes adjusted just in time to catch the tubular shape of some object swinging for my head. I instinctively raised my wrists in defense and took the brunt of the blow from a metal pipe directly on bone. Pain exploded up my arm, and my knees buckled, dropping me to the cement floor. Immediately, I went into a roll.

  Again and again, the pipe just missed me, sparking off the floor and wall. Finally, it struck me again, this time on the tip of my shoulder. The pain was blinding. Drills from high school football were all that kept me rolling. My body slammed hard against an exit door. The blows continued from the shadows. I tried to get a fix on the man, but the blows kept raining down, some missing, some not. A surgical mask registered, and some sort of woolen cap.

  I pulled my legs to my chest and pressed my back up against the door for leverage. The attacker was swinging with a nearly regular rhythm. It was my onl
y chance. His blow glanced off my shin, and when he raised the weapon above his head again—I plunged both my feet hard into his abdomen. My thrust drove him backwards. I heard the air explode from his lungs. The pipe clattered to the floor.

  Moving as quickly as I could manage, I pushed myself away from the door, executed a painful shoulder roll, and grabbed hold of the pipe. Before I could stand, I was kicked hard in the face. I fell back. My vision blurred, but I started swinging the pipe wildly and connected at least once. The blow pulled me off balance. When I scrambled to me feet, I saw the exit door had been opened and my attacker was on the run. The pain in my face, wrist, and legs made it nearly impossible for me to follow. A dozen yards down, the tunnel split, and my attacker had vanished. I was cooked. I chose the left, followed it for a while, and gave up.

  I dragged myself back to the spot where I had been attacked. On the floor against a wall, I found a thin fragment of red plastic. I had no idea what it was or if it was related to the attack. Still, I suspected the mystery would not remain unsolved for long. After all, I worked in a lab and, until she left for her sister’s place, had the chief of pathology at my disposal.

  The answer, at least to some of my questions, came in the form of a 2 A.M. call from Detective Manny Rodriquez. Rather than try to enlist Hannah’s help when she was under such stress, I had called Rodriquez, and he and his partner came by the hospital, checked over the tunnel, and then took the lead pipe and oddly shaped red plastic fragment off my hands.

  Now, at eight on a cloud-shrouded morning, it was time for action. I stood on the front steps of George and Hannah’s sprawling Tudor-style mansion, with the gun I had first used as an apprentice rodeo clown tucked in the waistband of my trousers.

  Seconds after I rang the bell, Kincaid was at the door. “Gabe,” he said, perplexed, “what are you doing here?”

  I took a step inside, pulled the gun out, and jammed it into Kincaid’s sit-ups-enhanced midsection. The medical chief groaned as though he’d been sucker-punched.

  “Get inside and don’t do anything stupid,” I said.

  Kincaid backed into the kitchen, where Hannah was at the table cradling a hefty mug of coffee.

  As soon as Radcliffe saw me and the revolver, the mug tumbled from her hand and shattered on the tile. “Gabe!” she cried out. “What are you doing?”

  “Sit down, George,” I said, jabbing his midsection with the gun.

  “We talked about this, Gabe,” Radcliffe said. “This isn’t the plan. You’re supposed to speak to the police after I leave for my sister’s. Please, Gabe! Be reasonable.”

  “That was before he tried to kill me,” I said. “Didn’t you, George? I was getting too close, and asking people about you and Annabelle. So you decided bashing my head in was the simplest solution.”

  I came up behind Kincaid and pressed the muzzle of the gun to his temple. He was shaking now. Radcliffe was, too. I must have looked like a rabid dog to them, spittle at the corners of my mouth, utterly dangerous.

  “What do you want, Gabe?” Kincaid stammered. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to admit that you killed Annabelle Stern,” I said.

  “What? I’ll do no such thing!”

  “My best friend is in jail because of you. You strangled Annabelle and you tried to kill me, you sonofabitch. Now, you’re going to confess to what you did, or I’m going to use every bullet in this on a different part of you.”

  Radcliffe came at me. “Gabe, please!”

  I whirled and pointed the gun at her. “Back off, Hannah. You don’t want to get involved in this. In fact, why don’t you just get out of here? Go to your sister’s like we planned.”

  “This isn’t like you, Gabe,” she said. “Please stop!”

  I turned back to Kincaid. It was clear I was no longer in control. “You were too good to get caught. I’m not going to let you get away with this while my best friend rots in prison.”

  “No, I didn’t kill her. I didn’t!”

  “She was blackmailing you about the affair. That’s why you gave her a third ownership of Medtransit.”

  “No, it’s not true.”

  “Admit it!” I was screaming now, shaking violently, face flush with rage. I dug the barrel of the gun against his temple. “You get until three. The first shot is going to be through your hip. Okay, one.”

  “Please, Gabe,” Radcliffe begged. “You don’t have to do this.”

  George began to whimper.

  “Two.”

  “No! God! No!” Radcliffe cried.

  “Three…” I cocked the hammer and aimed at his right hip.

  Radcliffe fell onto the ceramic shards on the floor, sobbing. “It was me,” she blurted out. “It was me, I killed the bitch. I did it.”

  I lowered the pistol. “You arranged a meeting with her in room six and paralyzed her with a sudden shot of succinylcholine, didn’t you?”

  “How did you—?”

  “It wasn’t that hard to figure out. Forty seconds and she could barely move. When the paralysis had partially worn off, you were able to strangle her without a struggle. Then, last night, when I told you I was going to the police about George, you couldn’t face losing him, and tried to kill me.”

  “It was all that bitch, Stern. She turned his head when all she wanted from him was his money and another notch in her belt. She was sick and she deserved to die, and I’m glad I did it.”

  I handed Kincaid the gun. “Don’t worry, George. Like I told you when we set this up, I pulled the firing pin years ago.”

  “Gabe, what about the DNA from Lou?” he asked.

  I looked down at Radcliffe, who was bleeding at the knee through her pajamas and glaring up at me with brimstone eyes. “Want to tell him, Hannah? Might as well…Okay, I’ll tell him. It all came clear to me last night when I decided to believe that Lou couldn’t have committed murder, no matter what the evidence to the contrary. Ironically, it’s the lab you designed years ago that I helped you run with the second-year students, where they take samples of one another’s buccal smears for DNA analysis. You kept the frozen samples and then, when you decided to kill Annabelle, remembered that one of those samples was from Lou when he was a second-year.”

  “You have no proof,” she said.

  I laughed and unbuttoned my shirt enough to show her the wires. “Even if I didn’t have you on tape, we have the nail extender that broke off when you tried to bludgeon me to death, as well as your fingerprints taken from the pipe. Guys, I think it’s time.”

  The front door opened, and Detectives Anderson and Rodriquez entered the kitchen, along with a flood of police. George Kincaid made no attempt to help his wife up so she could be handcuffed.

  Kincaid buried his face in his hands. “I loved Annabelle,” he said. “We were going to get married. Hannah knew I was leaving her, but I didn’t think her anger would lead to murder.”

  “Well, maybe the one-third stake Annabelle had in your business pushed her over the edge.”

  “Annabelle never blackmailed me, Gabe. I did that out of love.”

  I flashed on all the men and women pining for Annabelle in her big box of love notes. “Well, I guess love can make us do some pretty unpredictable things,” I said.

  Two days later, Los Tres Médicos were together once again. A bunch of the senior residents had gathered at McSorely’s Extra Special Watering Hole, our unofficial hospital bar, to celebrate Lou’s release from prison. In light of the tragic events—one murdered chief resident and one jailed chief of pathology—I thought it was in somewhat poor taste to hang a WELCOME HOME JAILBIRD banner behind the bar. Nobody else shared my sentiment. Annabelle Stern may have had many lovers, but she hadn’t made many friends among the staff.

  “To Lou,” I said, raising my goblet.

  Paul, Lou, and I clinked glasses. My Diet Coke tasted flat, but I didn’t complain. Life was inching toward normal. Justice had been served, at least in part. Annabelle Stern, despite all her failings—and
the drugs she had planted in Paul’s locker—was a hell of a doctor, and did not, for my money at least, deserve her fate. But that’s the way it was.

  “I sure owe you, big fella,” Lou said, setting his hand on my shoulder. “My freedom hinged on your faith in me. I’ll never forget you for that.”

  “Hey, what are friends for? So I guess that’s it, then. Case closed.”

  “Case closed,” Lou echoed. “Except for one thing—a toast to our new chief resident.” He raised his glass again. “To Paul Brosnan.”

  “That remains to be determined,” Paul said. “If they offer it to me, I’ll take it.”

  “They will and you should,” I said. “Any hope for you and Victoria?”

  “None. I’ve seen jealous streaks before, but hers is bigger than the Great Wall of China. Maybe Annabelle’s death will send her on the right path, but I don’t want to walk it with her.”

  “Jealously, betrayal, murder, and lies,” I said. “Just another typical week at Eisenhower Memorial. I’ve got to tell you, boys, this didn’t do much for making me want to stay.”

  “You’re moving back to Wyoming, aren’t you, Cowboy?” Lou said.

  “I hate to say it, but horses are a heck of a lot easier to figure than people.”

  We clanked glasses once again, hugged, and then I shambled out of the bar.

  Read on for an excerpt of

  POLITICAL SUICIDE

  By New York Times Bestselling Author Michael Palmer

  On Sale January 8th, 2013 from St. Martin’s Press

  Find Michael Online and Pre-Order at:

  www.michaelpalmerbooks.com

  Political Suicide

  Michael Palmer

  Prologue

  May 3, 2003

  The three men, members of Mantis Company, slipped out the open hatch of the C130 transport as it flew sixty-five thousand feet above the world. They had trained for this jump countless times. Their gear, ballistic helmets, oxygen masks, Airox O2 regulators, bailout bottles, all fastidiously maintained, assured them a successful landing. Altimeters marked their belly-to-earth rate of descent at one hundred fifteen miles per hour. Minutes of free fall were spent in an effortless dive, with the men dropping in formation, still and straight. Automatic activation devices engaged the parachutes eight hundred feet before impact, the lowest altitude allowed for combat high-altitude/low-opening jumps.