T Wave

by Steven F Freeman

  Scrubs issued a snort, a tacit confirmation of her speculation.

  “Mr. Abernathy,” said Mallory, “Jeanette and Max claim you were the distributor, but we didn’t find any drugs on your person, whereas we did find drugs on them when we caught them with their pants down—literally—two days ago. So, you’ll be charged with possession, since the drugs were on your property, but not with distribution, since we can’t prove that charge.”

  Alton turned to Scrubs and Jeanette. “Now, since you all were harvesting patient drugs, the next question is, what were you doing with them, when you weren’t burying them in your backyard? Agent Wilson pulled your credit reports, and they’re not pretty. We know you all are on shaky financial ground—late on most of your payments, in a lot of debt. That, plus the quantity of stolen drugs, suggests that you’re probably selling them rather than saving them for personal consumption.”

  Alton studied Scrubs. “Tell me again how you acquired the wound on your cheek.”

  Scrubs looked uncomfortable. “I told you, man, I was pruning my yard and a big old branch hit me when it fell.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Alton, “so you told me the other day. That must have been one heck of a limb to scratch you so deep.”

  “Yeah, man,” replied Scrubs. “It knocked my ladder over, too.”

  “Your ladder—really? And did you use your own ladder and pruning equipment, or someone else’s?”

  Scrubs looked unsure of himself. “My own.”

  “Hmm. Frankly, Mr. Abernathy, the explanation behind your facial wound seemed suspect, and when Agent Wilson mentioned your wife’s involvement with the drug thefts, I became even more suspicious of the whole ‘falling-branch’ story. When I went to your house a few days ago, I examined your front and back yards. There’s no trace of any pruning for at least three or four years. A branch as large as the one you claimed hit you would leave a noticeable sheared branch behind. There’s nothing of the sort in your yard.

  “Want to know what else you don’t have? A ladder or any kind of pruning equipment. I checked your garage.”

  “I let someone borrow them,” claimed Scrubs.

  “Really? Who?”

  Scrubs hesitated.

  “You know we’re going to verify your story, so you might as well fess up now. You didn’t get that injury from a branch, did you?”

  Scrubs looked up defiantly. “Okay—fine. I was visiting a friend in a rough neighborhood, and all of a sudden when I’m leaving, these dudes start shooting at me. It ain’t a crime to get shot at, is it?”

  Alton narrowed his eyes. “No, but trafficking in drugs is. According to your wife, you were shot by gang members at your buyer’s house, but…I can’t prove that.

  “A word of advice, Mr. Abernathy. If you haven’t been walking the straight and narrow, now would be a good time to start. I’m going to recommend to the local PD that they keep an eye on you.”

  Scrubs shrugged. “I’m an angel, man. But the cops are gonna have a hard time keeping their eyes on me pretty soon. Even if I don’t serve any time, I’m gonna have to move if Jeanette goes to jail. Like you said, we’re struggling to make the house payments. For sure I can’t make them by myself.”

  “What?” exclaimed Jeanette. “Just like that, you’re going to let him get away with it? I’m telling you he’s the one who was selling the drugs to his friend Leroy.”

  “We’re not letting him ‘get away’ with anything,” replied Mallory. “He’s being charged with possession. That’s all we can prove, and even then we didn’t find the drugs on him, just in the yard. Do you have any corroborating evidence to support your claim of trafficking?”

  “How do you think Max got his bottle of Oxy? He had to buy it from someone.”

  “You’re asking me to guess how the man in bed with you came into possession of a bottle of medicine you stole from a dying patient,” said Mallory. “What do you think my answer is going to be? That the bottle went to your husband first, who then sold it to your secret lover? Or that you gave the bottle directly to your lover? Obviously, a judge and jury are going to believe the second scenario over the first.”

  “But it didn’t happen that way…” said Jeanette, breaking down into tears.

  “Maybe not, but the evidence points to you two more than your husband. And we can only prosecute where we have evidence.”

  The room fell silent for a moment as Jeanette continued to weep in quiet frustration.

  Alton spoke up. “This is where the relationship between the theft and murder investigations became sticky. We knew that these folks were stealing the drugs,” he said, gesturing to the Abernathys and Max, “but did they have another, more sinister agenda? We wondered…were Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy speeding along patients’ deaths to acquire a new, more reliable source of drugs? Until we discovered the true perpetrator of the homicides, we considered this possibility. However, we now know that although they harvested drugs, they weren’t involved in the murders.”

  “Speaking of the murders,” said Wiggins, “you still haven’t explained what evidence you have against Doctor Powell. And what evidence exonerates these other suspects.”

  “You’re right,” said Alton. “I haven’t. But I think you’ll find it to be a fascinating tale—one worth the wait.”

  CHAPTER 52

  “Regarding the patient murders,” said Alton, “one of our challenges was that we knew of several people who had not only the opportunity but also a plausible motive for committing them.”

  “Besides Andrew Powell, you mean?” asked Wiggins.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Like who?”

  “One suspect was Nancy Goins.”

  Nancy stiffened. “Me? I’m the one who pointed out the murders in the first place. Why would I do that if I was the person killing those poor patients?”

  “Agent Wilson and I discussed precisely that same question. In the course of our investigation, we discovered that you and your husband were going through some hard times.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Nancy, looking at the table. She raised her gaze back to Alton. “But that’s not a reason to murder someone…at least for me, it isn’t. Plus how would that fit in with all the other patient deaths?”

  “Again, those are the same questions Agent Wilson and I pondered. We realized one of two schemes could be playing out. Under the first scheme, you could have simply noticed the string of murders and decided to piggyback on them, making the death of your husband appear to be the latest in the series.

  “The second possible scheme was a little darker. You could have orchestrated the whole series from the very beginning for the same reason: to hide your connection to the only person you specifically wanted to see dead, your husband, by making his death look like one out of a series occurring at Stokely properties. Either scenario deflects the attention that would normally accrue to you as the estranged wife of a young, healthy man who suddenly dies. ‘Hey, it’s not me, it’s the hospital maniac.’ But for that approach to work, people had to be aware that a hospital maniac was on the loose in the first place. You would have had to point out the series of murders when people didn’t notice.”

  “It all sounds so preposterous,” said Nancy, shaking her head, “but…I understand your reasoning, not knowing me.” A shiver ran up her spine. “Thank God you figured out the truth. If you hadn’t, who’s to say how far your theories about me might have played out?”

  “Well, we don’t have to worry about that now, do we?” said Alton. “And regardless of any issues you and Ken were having, I’m sure this must still be a difficult time for you. I want you to know that I’m truly very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” said Nancy, eyeing Alton expectantly as if wondering if he had more to share. However, Alton declined to elaborate on any others aspect of Nancy’s personal circumstances.

  “Okay,” said Wiggins, growing a little impatient, “is there anyone else you initially suspected whom you’ve now ruled out?
”

  “Yes,” replied Alton. “Another suspect was William Cline.”

  “What? This is preposterous,” protested Cline. “I demand—”

  “I didn’t say you did it, Mr. Cline,” interrupted Alton, “just that theoretically, you could have had a reason.”

  “What could possibly motivate me to murder in cold blood the patients I’ve sworn to aid?”

  Alton frowned at the man’s grandiose rhetoric. “The same drive that led you to attempt to suppress my investigation at virtually every opportunity. Only the threat of a search warrant and the attendant media exposure secured your cooperation.”

  “I gave you want you wanted, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, eventually. But you showed your true colors early on by letting every decision be guided by the almighty dollar. You own thousands of Stokely stock options that are currently worthless but which could be converted into a small fortune if Stokely’s stock price were to rise. Almost two weeks ago, before I even began this investigation, Agent Wilson was present in Nancy Goins’ office when you called her. You complained to Mrs. Goins about the hospice’s low occupancy rate. You knew that Serenity’s poor financial results were suppressing Stokely’s stock price. You’ve told me yourself, several times, about your concerns for Stokely’s financial results. You went even further with your wife, telling her your job could be on the line if Serenity’s profitability didn’t improve.”

  “You spoke with my wife? How dare you—,” began Cline.

  “Mr. Cline,” said Alton. “I had to be sure of my facts, and eventually my investigation cleared your name. The only way to get to the bottom of these murders was to learn all the facts, not just the ones you’re comfortable with. When I began the investigation, I didn’t know which facts would end up being essential until my research was complete. Until then, I followed up on every reasonable lead. I’m sorry if that bothers you.”

  “Fine,” fumed Cline. “It’s not like it matters now anyway, I suppose. But you still didn’t explain why wanting to improve Stokely’s financials would lead me to murder.”

  “That’s easy,” said Alton. “Serenity’s occupancy rate has never hit its target, has it?”

  “No, but how would that make me—?”

  Alton raised an interposing hand. “Technically, you’re responsible for the profitability of all Stokely properties. But as the initiator of the project to build Serenity, your job was riding on its particular success. When you first pushed for the creation of Serenity, you assumed it would be filled to capacity or at least close to capacity, right?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “And patients have to be dying to warrant a referral to a hospice. What do you do if the occupancy rate is low? One option would be to help them along in their journey to the hospice.”

  “I see,” said Cline. “You must have judged my skill in that venture to be rather poor, considering most of the murdered patients died before they could be transferred out.”

  “You’re not a medical professional, so yes, you could have been inept in that way. But as I said, Mr. Cline, you’re no longer under suspicion. However, would you mind answering a question, just to satisfy my curiosity?”

  “I suppose,” said Cline, eyeing Alton suspiciously.

  “You told your wife you’d figured out a way to improve Serenity’s profitability. She noted that it seemed to lift a weight off your shoulders. I also spoke with Leo Jacobin, your boss. He was initially reluctant to share any information with me, but eventually he admitted that you had a plan for Serenity—a plan he might not feel comfortable with. He told me that you and he agreed he didn’t need to know the details.”

  “I see. And what’s your question?” asked Cline.

  “Just this. What is your plan? We know it doesn’t involve an insidious murder plot to increase the hospice’s patient load, but how are you planning to improve Serenity’s financials?”

  William Cline produced his first smile of the day. “Want to hear something ironic? I started working with my former colleague down the table there, Andrew Powell. I convinced him to begin sending his terminally-ill patients to Serenity instead of that butcher-shop downtown. At first, he didn’t want to. Serenity is so tight with Reginald Oswald, Powell said sending his patients to Serenity would feel like aiding and abetting the enemy.”

  Powell nodded in accord with this statement, and Cline continued, “I had been after Powell for months, so to be honest, he surprised me by finally agreeing to go along with it. Probably the referral fee I offered to send to his research grant office for each patient he sent to Serenity didn’t hurt. I figured he was running short on money. Frankly, I didn’t care.”

  “I understand the financial benefit to Serenity,” said Alton, “but why keep it a secret?”

  “Doctor Oswald reciprocates Doctor Powell’s unfriendliness. If Oswald became aware of Powell’s switch to Serenity, he—Doctor Oswald—might consider taking his business elsewhere. That would leave us worse off than before. I knew the Serenity staff would see Powell around more often, but I had hoped to avoid spreading this news to Doctor Oswald. Neither doctor spends much time in the hospice, so there was a pretty good chance Oswald would never know he had begun to share the hospice with Powell.

  “And we needed Doctor Powell’s business—desperately. He oversees a lot of patients at San Cristobel General, and getting more referrals from the doctors of terminally-ill patients at other hospitals will be the key to improving Serenity’s financial performance. It’ll fill our beds, which helps us. And it’ll give more patients and families the opportunity to experience the top-notch end-of-life services that are unique to Serenity.”

  Alton experienced some discomfort with the crassness of Cline’s boast, but he had to admit that the facilities and staff at Serenity were first rate. Cline thought quite a bit in terms of money—that was his job, after all—but perhaps it wasn’t his only consideration.

  “So shielding this information from your boss was part of your attempt to keep Powell’s switch to Serenity a secret from Doctor Oswald?”

  “Yes. Leo Jacobin and Doctor Oswald are golfing buddies. If I told Mr. Jacobin, Oswald would be sure to find out.”

  “Okay, this is all well and good,” said Wiggins, “but we still haven’t discussed the true culprit. Do you have any other cleared suspects you want to cover first?”

  “No,” replied Alton. “Let’s turn our attention to the curious tale of Andrew Powell, scientific researcher and serial murderer.”

  CHAPTER 53

  As Alton prepared to describe Andrew Powell’s journey down a forbidding path of evil, he studied the shackled prisoner sitting across the table. The man’s shoulders drooped with a resigned air.

  “We’ve had a total of seven cases of inexplicable deaths in the past couple of months,” said Alton, “five in Stokely Memorial Hospital and two in Serenity Hospice. In all cases, the patients were admitted to the hospital for one condition but died of something else. To top it off, the autopsies of the hospital patients couldn’t reveal exactly what had killed them. It was a puzzler.

  “I began looking into these cases on behalf of the FBI. I searched for trends—for the common thread between them. Frankly, it was challenging to identify any commonality. Some patients were in the hospital, some were in the hospice. Some patients were dying with only weeks or months to live, others had fairly minor conditions. One patient was only in the hospital for a nose job, for Pete’s sake.” At the inadvertent mention of Ken Goins’ death in front of his recent widow, Alton glanced wide-eyed at Nancy, who shrugged in resigned acceptance of the tacit apology.

  “I had a glimmer of hope when I noticed that all the patients had stayed on Five South at one time or another,” said Alton. “Could that be a connection somehow? But then William Cline pointed out that Five South is a ‘med-surg’ floor, catering to a wide variety of patients with different conditions. The severity of the patients’ issues I just mentioned bears this out: as I said, some wer
e dying, while others weren’t sick at all. The relatively mild condition of some patients also seemed to eliminate the possibility of a wacko going on a ‘mercy-killing’ spree.”

  “The rhinoplasty surgery in particular stood out from the rest. Other than residing on Five South, this patient had almost nothing in common with the others.

  “Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I made a key discovery while I was talking with Karen Proffitt, the nurse who cared for Janice Kell, one of the seven patients whose death I was investigating. It wasn’t the information I acquired from Nurse Proffitt that was important but rather a separate conservation I overheard at the time.

  “I was already aware of the rivalry between Reginald Oswald and Andrew Powell. They espouse competing theories of the causes and treatment for GI diseases and vie for the same federal grants. Each scientist hopes to prove the superiority of his theories over his competitor’s.

  “During my conversation with Nurse Proffitt, Doctor Powell arrived on the floor and encountered Doctor Oswald. Powell rubbed Oswald’s face in the death of one of his—Oswald’s—research patients. I had witnessed this type of rivalry before, and so had Agent Wilson, so it really didn’t surprise me. However, once Powell left, Oswald learned that the patient in question, Ken Goins, was not one of his research subjects. Oswald had asked Goins to join his research group, but Goins hadn’t yet agreed to the request.

  “To be honest, my initial reaction to the conversation was disappointment in Doctor Oswald. He seemed to be more concerned over one of his tests going wrong than over a patient—any patient—dying.

  “I wasn’t hit with the real epiphany from the doctors’ conversation until a couple of nights ago. Previously, I had struggled to fit Ken Goins’ minor surgery into the pattern with the rest of the patients. Then it hit me: Ken Goins wasn’t a patient of Oswald’s, but Andrew Powell thought he was. Even though it seemed farfetched, I wondered if Andrew Powell could be mixed up in all this somehow.

  “I reconsidered my discovery of the patients having all spent time on Five South at some point. In addition to being a med-surg floor, Five South is also the hospital’s gastroenterology floor. I noticed the ‘GI’ sign hanging in the Five South hallway the second or third time I came in to visit…a sick friend. I knew from the first few days of my investigation that most of my mysteriously-dead patients had been admitted with some type of GI problem, but the death of Ken Goins had disrupted this trend.