“But viewed from Doctor Powell’s perspective, Ken Goins didn’t disrupt the trend. Doctor Powell thought Ken Goins had been admitted for a GI problem, not rhinoplasty. Viewed from Doctor Powell’s perspective, the trend for which I had been searching snapped into focus. Every single patient had been a member of Reginald Oswald’s GI research group, or so Doctor Powell thought.
“The idea of Doctor Powell’s culpability agreed with another observation I had previously made. For a while, I’ve suspected the murderer was familiar with the hospital.”
“Why?” asked Wiggins.
“Because the security camera on Five South, the floor where all the hospital murders occurred, is broken. Only a frequent visitor like Powell would know that the security camera outside those rooms isn’t operational and that he, therefore, wouldn’t be filmed. Possibly Powell damaged the camera himself to avoid being caught on film.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Powell’s lips, but he declined to explicitly confirm Alton’s conjecture.
“Okay,” snapped Wiggins, “I get all this, but how does that support the idea of Doctor Powell murdering these patients?”
Alton suspected that a man intelligent enough to become a scientific researcher would at some point want to boast about the intricate design of his scheme. With this in mind, he glanced in the direction of the morose researcher. “Doctor Powell, of course you have the right to remain silent, but if you’re so inclined, feel free to correct any incorrect suppositions.”
Powell looked in Alton’s direction but didn’t respond. The man seemed to be in a partial state of shock.
Turning back to Agent Wiggins, Alton continued, “Imagine you’re Andrew Powell in the early years of your research. You’re not only a top-notch gastroenterologist, you’re also researching cures for GI diseases. You’re receiving federal grants, and while it’s too early to assess the efficacy of your treatments, your theories seem sound. You’re at the top of your game.
“Now imagine that another, competing doctor propounds theories that are at odds with yours. Some people start to listen to those alternative theories, and you get knocked a little off your pedestal. Now that competing doctor begins to win the federal grants that had previously been awarded to you. You feel under attack, yet you hope and believe your theories—and the subsequent therapies you’ve developed from them—will prove to be the winners in the long run.
“Over time, however, your problem gets worse. Oswald notches one success after another, and as the results from your test patients roll in, you can see that your treatments aren’t effective. More researchers shift into your competitor’s camp, and your position becomes even more tenuous. What can you do?” Alton paused. “One option—Powell’s option—would be to kill the patients being treated with your competitor’s new therapy. Nothing stifles an R&D project like a string of test-subject deaths, right, Doctor?” he asked, turning to Powell.
“But why kill hospice patients?” asked Wiggins. “They’re going to die anyway.”
“From Powell’s point of view,” replied Alton, “the hospice patients are the most threatening to his theories. If a patient has been declared terminally ill and is then suddenly cured by your competitor’s therapy, your own therapy takes a huge blow. You have to eliminate the possibility of a hospice patient improving and completely discrediting your work.”
Alton turned to Andrew Powell. “How am I doing? Do you feel like commenting?”
Powell emitted a long sigh, as if the spirit of determination had left him for a more suitable home. “I may as well tell you. It’s all going to come out soon enough.”
He sat up a little straighter in his seat and folded his hands in his lap. His gaze seemed to focus on some point in the far distance behind Alton’s head. “First, let me state that while the facts are more or less true as you’ve described them, everything I’ve done has been for the advancement of science. I firmly believe the family of treatments I’m developing will eventually become the gold standard. I just need more time to finish my testing—time that’s running out.”
Refocusing on Alton, Powell nodded. “My research is in shambles. My test patients aren’t recovering—yet—and Oswald’s theories keep experiencing one success after another. As you correctly surmised, one of his hospice patients pulling back from the brink of death could be the last straw—enough to sink my research and my federal funding. I had to act—give myself a little more time to gather test evidence. And I have to confess…I didn’t mind wiping the smirk off of Oswald’s face in the process.”
“Doctor Powell, I have a question for you,” said Alton. “How did you come to labor under the false assumption that Ken Goins was a member of Doctor Oswald’s research group?”
“I can answer that,” chimed in Nancy Goins. “Doctor Powell and I know each other through a hospice trade group. During our quarterly meeting a few months ago, he asked me if I knew any patients with GI problems, and I mentioned that Ken had diverticular disease. He then asked me if Ken would be interested in joining his research group, and I told him Doctor Oswald had already inquired. That pretty much ended the conversation. Doctor Powell didn’t seem very happy with my answer.”
“But Ken never ended up joining Doctor Oswald’s test pool?”
“No,” said Nancy. “Ken said, ‘What’s in it for me? Nothing.’ So he didn’t join.”
Dr. Powell sank back into his chair, the inner turmoil of his thoughts seeming to periodically bubble to the surface.
Alton turned his attention back to Wiggins. “Once we understood the culprit and his reasoning, we simply had to wait for the next patient on Doctor Oswald’s research panel to be admitted to either the hospital or the hospice. I wrote a tracking program and appended it to the admissions software of both facilities. As soon as anyone on Oswald’s list was admitted, the program would send me a text. That’s exactly what happened with Ed Kinkaid, the patient admitted to Stokely Memorial yesterday. The program texted me mid-morning, notifying me of his admission. We moved into the bathroom early in the day, when there were family members and other doctors present. We know the murderer wouldn’t strike unless he thought himself alone.”
Alton turned to Dr. Powell. “One other question. What exactly did you use to kill those patients? Nothing showed up on the autopsies.”
Powell produced a wan smile. “It was childishly easy. I simply gave them a massive overdose of digitalis.”
“The heart medicine?” asked Mallory.
“Very good, Agent Wilson,” replied Powell. “Exactly—it is a heart medicine, but a sufficiently large dose can cause heart failure. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“And since none of these patients were being treated for heart failure, they wouldn’t have been tested for a digitalis overdose in their subsequent autopsies,” inferred Alton.
“You win a gold star too, Mr. Blackwell,” said Powell. “I did have to use a less…shall we say…refined approach for one hospice patient. When I arrived there, I couldn’t locate my syringe, but putting a blanket over her face proved to be an effective substitute.”
“No wonder it was so hard to catch you,” said Alton. “As a research doctor, you’d legitimately be in both facilities all the time. Your presence would never draw anyone’s attention.
“A final question, Doctor Powell. Do I have you to thank for the remnants of this knot on the back of my neck?”
Powell appeared confused at first, but recognition quickly set in. “Oh, yes—I remember. As you said, Mr. Blackwell, I move quite unobserved through both facilities. It was just dumb luck that I heard you. I had been seeing Mrs. Moore, a patient on my test panel. When I wrapped up her visit, I thought I’d go ask Nancy Goins if any new GI patients had been admitted to Serenity. When I arrived at her office, I overheard the conversation between you and Agent Wilson.
“Mr. Blackwell, you made a disturbing connection. Patients who die in a hospice almost never have an autopsy, and the autopsies Oswald performed on his patients were spec
ifically targeted to examine GI diseases and his treatments, not conduct an across-the-board assessment. You were the first person to observe the pattern of disconnects between the patients’ conditions and their autopsy results. I knew those discrepancies would be noted in the individual autopsies at the hospital but had hoped the pattern across multiple patients would remain unrecognized.”
“So when you heard me make the observation that night, you sprang into action?”
“That was the idea. I tried to improvise, but I don’t get as much mustard behind the Louisville Slugger as I used to.”
Alton touched his wound. It had been enough for his taste.
“Doctor Powell, can I ask you a question?” asked Mallory.
Powell shrugged in a show of indifference.
“When I arrested you yesterday, what did you mean when you said, ‘you can’t stop me’? I mean…at that point, a man of your intellect had to know you weren’t going to escape.”
“I didn’t mean you couldn’t stop me physically,” explained Powell. “I meant you mustn’t stop the research. It’s too important. If I get arrested, this whole line of inquiry shuts down. In fact, could we make arrangements for me to finish a promising clinical study while I await trial? I understand if you decide to send one of your FBI agents to accompany me during the testing.”
Wiggins stared at Powell as if the doctor had conjured up an elephant or a unicorn. “You—a doctor who has made a habit of killing patients—want to go back to your rounds in a hospital? Not in this lifetime.”
“But the research—”
“Is over,” interjected Alton, “unless another scientist picks it up.”
“That doesn’t seem too likely, does it?” asked Mallory. “I think this line of research, like Doctor Powell himself, has run its course.”
The meeting adjourned. As the participants began filing out, Alton turned to Mallory. “I have to get back to my Kruptos work. Do you want to grab a quick bite to eat first?”
“Sure,” she replied.
As they walked down the hall from the conference room, Mallory spoke up. “Back in the debriefing, you never said anything about Nancy Goins’ affair.”
“You’re right,” admitted Alton. “I didn’t. Not that I condone having an affair, but I just thought…what’s the point? Pearl told me Ken used to mistreat her—at least verbally. Perhaps that’s why she had the affair in the first place.
“Nancy’s boss was in the room with us, so if I had said anything about the affair, that kind of news could have crippled her career, perhaps even gotten her fired. I figured…maybe now she can get on with her life. What’s the good of sending it crashing it down around her shoulders?” He paused to reflect upon his actions. “Do you think I did the right thing?”
Mallory considered for a moment. “Given the circumstances, yes.” They passed through the building’s exit, and she slipped her hand into his. “You’re a good man, you know that?”
Alton smiled at her, his heart quietly overflowing. At that moment, he wouldn’t have agreed to have Mallory taken from his side for anything life could give him.
CHAPTER 54
That evening, David and Fahima came to Mallory’s apartment for a prearranged dinner.
“So how is your investigation into the patient murders coming along?” asked David.
Alton looked up in surprise. While he had planned to share the details of the case over dinner, the only information he had previously shared with his friend had been intentionally vague. But, of course, David was a Secret Service agent, a man trained to draw conclusions from disparate pieces of information. “We just wrapped it up this morning, as a matter of fact.”
“Really? What happened?”
“We discovered Andrew Powell, a research scientist, was killing the members of a competitor’s research group.”
“That’s horrible,” said Fahima. “Why?”
“He was trying to keep his own research afloat. I know it sounds crazy, but that was his rationale.”
“How did you track him down?” asked Fahima.
“The murdered patients transitioned from stable vital signs to dead in the space of minutes. Even for a hospital or hospice, the deaths were too unusual. An administrator noticed the pattern, and we tracked the murders back to the scientist.”
“Did Powell have anything to do with Dad’s death?” asked David.
“No,” said Alton. “He definitely wasn’t involved.”
“I guess that makes sense. If he had something to do with it, Dad would have died all of a sudden.”
“Exactly. And that wasn’t the case.”
“That’s good to know, I guess,” said David. “He passed the way he was supposed to. Dealing with the funeral was hard enough, but if I had to deal with Dad being murdered on top of that…”
Alton could only imagine the tumult of thoughts that must be passing through his friend’s mind. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. As good as could be expected, I guess.”
As he and Fahima left at the end of the evening, David turned back to Alton. “Call me before you leave town. Let’s get together one more time.”
“You bet.”
David slid his arm around Fahima’s shoulders. She reciprocated by passing her arm around his waist, and the couple walked into the night air.
SUNDAY, JULY 29
CHAPTER 55
Scrubs wiped his brow as he lowered the metal door of the U-Haul van. He had managed to fill the trailer almost to capacity: beds and appliances and clothes and, yes, there’s the shovel from the garage. Before climbing into the truck’s cab, he took one last look at the house and still-unpruned trees. He had wasted no time packing. Mindful of the previous week’s eviction notice, Scrubs had completed the work in forty-eight hours.
On the night of her arrest, Jeanette had called him from the detention center, sobbing.
“Randy, you gotta come bail me out of jail!” she had wailed. “The FBI busted me with the stuff.”
“Damn—really?” Scrubs had exclaimed. An unpleasant montage of financial and criminal repercussions had played through his mind. “Did they catch you at work, then?”
“Uh…no. At a friend’s house.”
Ah-hah! So she was still seeing that jerkoff co-worker. “Okay. Where are you?”
“I’m at the…let me see…Arlington County Detention Facility.”
“I’ll be leaving soon.”
After the conversation with Jeanette, Scrubs had contacted the FBI to discover the specific charges against his wife. It had taken several phone calls before some lady agent told him—off the record—the details of Jeanette and Max’s arrests, including the two suspects’ lack of attire.
“I’ll be leaving soon,” he had told Jeanette. Damn right—leaving your life. The plea bargain had been worth it. Given her cheating ways, Jeanette would surely have cut a deal for herself if offered the same opportunity. She had already demonstrated where her loyalties lay: in bed with her boyfriend. The plea bargain had given Scrubs the chance to avoid jail time, not only for hiding narcotics in his yard but also for posting the note on the agent’s car, a fact to which he had readily confessed.
Scrubs had to admit, the whole situation had nearly unfolded quite differently. Before Jeanette’s arrest, he had wondered why hospital management had made such a fuss over the cops’ re-opening of the dead guy’s room back on Five South. The over-the-top attention had made him uneasy, and he had shied away. Besides, he had already hit up that room the day the patient had died, so how much more opportunity to score would there be? It had turned out to be a wise decision. He had heard later that the meds in that room were bugged or tracked somehow.
Scrubs had lost his job, of course. The misdemeanor to which he agreed to plea had allowed him to avoid prison time but had nonetheless constituted an admission of drug theft on the job. It would make the acquisition of an orderly job in another hospital difficult if not impossible. Maybe he could find a nursing home that didn
’t feel the need to impose a second round of punishment on top of that which had been administered by the courts.
Scrubs pulled his gaze away from the dwelling he had shared with Jeanette over the past four years. He was going to lose the house, too, but it sure beat losing his freedom.
CHAPTER 56
Three days had elapsed since the arrest of Andrew Powell. With the successful conclusion of the case, Alton had spent most of his waking hours since then in Mallory’s apartment, catching up on his Kruptos projects.
As the third day drew to a close, Mallory’s cheerful form passed through the door of her apartment.
“I was just getting ready to walk Buster,” said Alton. “Want to come with me?”
“Sure.”
As the two humans set a leisurely pace, the Labrador described a zigzag pattern in front of them, all the while keeping his nose trained to the ground.
“I feel bad I haven’t seen you much the last few days,” said Mallory.
“Likewise,” said Alton. “Our respective cases put us both behind in our other work. Are you feeling a little more caught up now?”
“Just about. I might need another day or two to feel back to normal—whatever that is,” she said, laughing. “Working for the FBI is never strictly a nine-to-five job anytime. So, how was your day? Are things getting better, workload-wise?”
“Yeah, it’s still a little crazy but improving,” replied Alton. He stopped walking and looked Mallory in the face with an unwavering gaze. “Speaking of my job, I received some rather important news today.”
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