The Water’s Edge was the deluxe rental community Dr. Garrison lived at, and from the way it appeared, it had all the sweeping amenities of luxury living. And, whoever designed the grounds didn’t call it The Water’s Edge for nothing. The Folly Beach Pier was conveniently located a few minutes away, within walking distance from the property. Once there, you could stroll the boardwalk, populated with snack bars, restaurants and trendy tourist shops. A sightseeing bonanza. And, if the pier or the beach didn’t do it for you, the complex itself provided a plethora of extravagant elegant accommodations. Enough to satisfy any overworked physician.
An enormous, hourglass swimming pool shimmered in the center of a beautifully coiffed garden. On the lacquered wooden decks were lawn chairs, yellow and white striped cabanas, matching umbrellas and a larger than life Jacuzzi. Palm trees and lush tropical foliage added to the beauty of the grounds and the pool. All this should keep any tenant lavishly content, at least until the first of the month rolled around and the rent was due. In the middle of this sprawling, coastal property was a full service clubhouse, equipped with billiards, ping pong tables and tennis courts.
Shangri-La.
Janice was in the wrong profession. She should have been a real estate broker.
Needing to use the restroom, Janice chose to investigate the clubhouse first. Inside, she noticed how meticulously clean everything was. A housekeeping attendant was actually cleaning the front window as she entered. She politely opened the door for Janice and offered a shy exchange before going about her business. Janice strolled over polished terracotta floors to the Ladies Room. She passed through a lounge, decorated with earth colored divans and wicker chairs. Reminding her more of a changing room than a relief station, it came equipped with showers, a sauna (real redwood) and a steam room. Each amenity worked flawlessly on its own automatic timer. She entered into her private stall. As she sat, she looked around for graffiti, loose cigarette ashes… anything unkempt, but everything was clean and polished to a high patina. She washed her hands at the marble sink and noticed a beautiful supply of bathroom accessories. Neatly displayed on the vanity were fluffy hand towels, individually folded. Wow!
Outside the restroom was a coed game room stocked with every imaginable gadget you could possibly think of. Several computerized dartboards lined the walls. Decks of cards, chess sets and ornate wood engraved backgammon boards rested on top of imported mosaic tabletops. Tucked away in a back corner was a pool table. Janice noticed the colorful balls already positioned in their triangular cue. How could she resist? She grabbed at one of the several pool sticks from off the wall, chalked it up and implemented one of her famous powerhouse breaks. To her surprise and chagrin, the only ball that sunk into the side pocket was the white one. Scratch! She dropped the stick on the table and continued her weary tour of how the other half lived. The rich half, that is.
Where’s Robin Leach when you need him?
A separate room was crammed with an assortment of coin-operated vending machines. She took a dollar bill from her pocket, smoothed out the dog-eared edges, fed it through the money slot and pressed the large rectangular button for Coke. It spit and burped and banged out a cold can into the bin located at the bottom.
She moseyed back through the adult playroom and entered the outside world. She pulled on her sunglasses and observed, in the distance behind a high wire fence, several couples dressed in white outfits swinging at tennis balls across a double court.
Large, two story brick structures fanned out over rolling lawns. The grounds were meticulously landscaped with exotic shrubs and flowers. How would one sign up? And, did they allow dogs? Jake would have a field day! Janice walked to the front of one of the apartment complex. Displayed in large black lettering on the brick facade: 201 – 229. She glanced at her wadded up piece of paper. 427. She passed by the Jacuzzi, void of people, wishing she’d remembered to bring her bathing suit. A few tenants lounged by the pool tanning themselves. Couples. The smell of suntan oil wafted in the air. Janice longed for a daiquiri. A margarita. Anything except this nonalcoholic Coca Cola! She casually waved to two woman playing tennis (they didn’t wave back). She crossed over another grassy knoll to the next apartment structure. In the parking lot across the street, a young girl practiced riding her bicycle. She spun around in dizzy circles with the aid of training wheels. Tassels, in an assortment of pastel, sparkly colors flowed freely from the handlebars like fireworks. Janice sensed somebody was watching. Within minutes, Janice turned to see the girl’s mother, or babysitter, or guardian run from an adjacent complex, gather the girl up in her arms and efficiently escort her and her bicycle up the winding sidewalk to the safety of the garage.
Safety.
Janice couldn’t blame her. She could only imagine the terror seeping into the community since the morning paper hit the stands. “The Mutilator.” And, Janice couldn’t believe she was the lucky reporter responsible for it. She continued walking, a woman on a mission.
400 – 429.
Bingo!
She approached the building with obvious apprehension. Upstairs, the second story apartments began numbering at 415. Holding onto the steel black handrail, she climbed the steps. What should she say? How would she initiate a conversation with Dr. Garrison? How would the Doctor feel about a snoopy reporter finding out her home address and driving to Folly Beach to interrogate her? Especially after the Hammerhead had assaulted her. Questions tumbled like Bingo balls as she advanced down the hall to apartment 427. The actual door appeared insignificant. Not as snazzy as one would expect considering the elegance of the clubhouse downstairs. But clean. The hallways were orderly. Positioned in the center of the plain green door was a brass knocker. It covered a tiny peephole. On the right side was an illuminated orange doorbell. Janice stood there, silently, contemplating on how to proceed. She opted for the doorbell. More professional.
“Can I help you with something?”
Wait one second. She hadn’t even buzzed yet.
Janice turned in the direction of the voice.
“Who are you looking for?” the woman asked, putting down a paper bag filled with groceries. She rummaged in her purse for keys. “Well?”
“You need any help with that?” Janice responded with kindness, feeling more like a girl scout than a reporter.
“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks.” She paused for a second and then looked up at Janice with an unwavering focus. “Well?”
Janice stood for what seemed like an hour taking in this exquisite specimen of a woman. She was smitten. In love. Unequivocally. Sorry, Lisette. Clearing her throat, Janice proceeded. “I’m looking for a Dr. Garrison. I have her listed as living here.” She showed her the crumbled-up piece of scrap paper she took from MUSC Admitting. “Right here, it says Apartment 427, Water’s Edge, Folly Beach. I must have missed her. She doesn’t seem to be at home.”
Finding her keys, the woman collected her bag of groceries and unlocked the door to 427. Janice moved out of her way.
“I’m Dr. Garrison. What can I do for you?”
“You’re Dr. Garrison?” Janice was stunned. Amazed was more like it. Some women have all the luck. Beauty and brains. She immediately hated her.
“Who are you?”
“Janice Porter, from the Post and Courier.”
“A Reporter?” Now she sounded intrigued. Or disgusted. The two not easily distinguishable. The door opened with a pop. She entered into her apartment, turned and held the door firmly with her hand. Janice glanced around her tall frame, briefly, absorbing the details of her apartment. Neat and clean. But dark. The window shades in the living room were drawn, the curtains closed. A cool draft emanated from the narrow slit in the doorway. Air conditioning. Central, Janice bet. “I have nothing further to say. Really. How did you find out where I live? Admitting?”
“It really wasn’t that difficult. I wonder if you might be able to give me…” Dr. Garrison slammed the door in Janice’s face. She took stock of her options. And started knock
ing. She neglected using the brass fixture. Chains rattled.
The door opened again, but this time only a sliver. Linked across the slit was a metal chain. “I’ve already told the police everything I know about that girl. Now, please, leave me alone. Just go away. It’s my only day off.”
“I understand that, and I do apologize for bothering you on your day off. I can only imagine the amount of hours you put in at that hospital, but this case is very important and very significant. And Angie Kessler is your patient, isn’t she?”
“I admitted her. I was the admitting physician.”
“Well, if we could just sit down for a second…”
“I don’t think so.”
“You might have some information that could shed new light on this case or possible some new evidence. Or, at least clear up some of the missing pieces of the puzzle. You do realize there’s a killer on the loose.”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t have any additional information.” She started to close the door.
Janice’s cell phone went off. It gave both of them a much needed reprieve. A moment to pause and regroup while Janice checked the number. Louis. The newsroom, alerting Janice of an emergency. She noticed the bars on her cell were low. Her signal bad. Janice looked through the narrow crack. “Listen, I know you want me to leave, but, do you think I might be able to use your landline? There seems to be no service here and my work is calling. An emergency. I’m sure you understand.”
“The complex must have a pay phone somewhere.” She pointed toward the clubhouse.
“If you don’t mind…”
Annoyed, the Doctor reluctantly unlocked the latch, opened the door and allowed Janice entry. “In the kitchen. Please make it quick.”
Janice brushed past an antique dining room table. Four matching chairs were pushed up underneath. She entered into the small, compact kitchen. Generic white would best describe it. White tiles, white cabinets, and a white dishwasher. All newly remodeled. Pristinely clean. No food was sitting out, except for some fruit arranged picturesquely in an artsy-fartsy ceramic bowl on, of course, a white Formica countertop. The telephone hung on the wall. It too, was white. What else? Everything appeared sanitary. Sterile. Like at the hospital. Janice dialed Louis’s number. It rang four or five times before somebody answered.
“Louis, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Mouth, now get Louis on the phone.” Dr. Garrison moved into her living room. She sat on the edge of her sofa and sifted through a few magazines layered on the glass coffee table. Her black leather sofa. Janice rolled her eyes, hoping the Doctor noticed, realizing she was bothering the hell out of her. Although not intentionally. Janice turned back to the brightness of the kitchen.
“Mouth…” Louis’s voice was excited and nervous. Exhausted. “Get to the fucking hospital! That Kessler girl…”
“What?” Janice interrupted him.
Louis started yelling at other people in the background. Janice hated that. Telephones were going off. Whistles and beeps were incessantly ringing. The newsroom was in complete pandemonium! Janice didn’t care.
“Louis. Louis! Motherfucker…” she whispered under her breath. Then, she yelled into the receiver. “Goddammit, Louis, talk to me!”
“… she’s dead, Mouth.”
“She’s what?”
Dr. Garrison sensed Janice’s obvious agitation as she began pacing back and forth, twisting the telephone cord nervously in her fingers. Her feet began to perspire. Dr. Garrison stood up and approached the kitchen.
“Dead, Mouth. Along with the Mother.”
“The girl’s in a hospital, Louis. Come on.” Janice couldn’t believe what she was hearing, although she had no reason not to.
“A fire broke out in her room…”
“I don’t fucking believe it.”
“I’ve dispatched the photographer. It’s gonna be a media frenzy. We’ll be fighting with television crews from Columbia, plus local…”
“Fire?”
Dr. Garrison opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Evian. Janice deduced by the remaining contents, her main diet was predominately Hospital Cafeteria. Save for the bottles of water, a Yuban coffee container and 2% milk, her icebox was virtually empty. She offered Janice a glass from the cupboard. Janice shook her head “no.”
“Jesus Christ, Louis.”
Louis’s voice barreled through the receiver like thunder. “Get your ass to the hospital, Mouth. NOW!”
“Ten-four, Louis.” Janice hung up. She looked across the kitchen at Dr. Garrison. “Better get your keys, Doc.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“That Kessler girl…”
“What about her?”
The Doctor finished her water in one graceful tilt. She sat the glass down on the white countertop. Janice could only imagine how brilliant a surgeon she was. Those slim, delicate perfectly long fingers. In the short time Janice had witnessed Dr. Garrison, everything she did, including the most insignificant of things, like opening her front door, the refrigerator, sitting down, ever so poised on her sofa, each indiscriminant act resonated calmness. Discipline. God, how Janice envied her. She was all over the place. Emotionally and physically. “Sloppy Sue,” she called herself. Meanwhile, Dr. Garrison remained cool. Unflustered. Her aura a bath of serenity. Relaxed under pressure, able to handle all situations quickly and deftly and oh, so reserved.
“Nothing…” Janice said, trying desperately to imitate the Doctor’s demeanor without much success. “… except the Kessler girl is dead.”
5:07 PM
Friday
MUSC
22
Dan parked his car at Roper Hospital and walked the short distance to the MUSC Emergency Room. Often confused and within spitting distance from one another, the two hospitals were closely linked. He passed by a cloister of uniformed female nurses. They stood along the parking lot sidewalk smoking cigarettes. Their conversation was low-keyed and sullen. They took turns running to the end of the walkway and peaking around its mammoth brick structure toward MUSC. Then they would scurry back to the group and cackle, like chickens in a henhouse!
The weather had turned cool. Dead leaves rustled across the freshly planted lawn. The threat of rain loomed. Fire trucks, media vans and police cruisers lined the street as Dan hurried around the corner to the ER and pressed the silver entry button, crossing over the threshold to a fanfare of commotion and confusion.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” A tough-looking, African American female nurse approached him. Dan flashed his metal. “Sorry,” she said, directing him with her index finger down the hallway to the elevator, “…just checking. This place is a zoo! The fire was on the fourth floor.”
Dan eased his way through a maze of similar entranceways until he reached the main corridor. The elevators had been restricted due to the fire. He found the emergency stairway and took two steps at a time, entering the fourth floor out of breath, only to find the elevators were back in service. The fire had been secured.
Chief Abrams stood by the nurse’s station. He was conferring with several men decked out in bulky fire gear when he spotted Dan.
“Arson. The Fire Chief said it was arson, Hammer. Gasoline.”
“They send samples to the lab?” Dan responded in monotone, scoping out the floor.
Chief Abrams was a big man. He pulled his pants up around his waist and leaned on the counter. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose loudly. “Smoke’s really bad. It bothers my asthma.”
“Sure is.” Dan agreed. A thin, gray haze of residual smoke hung like City smog close to the ceiling.
The Chief continued. “I’m glad you’re here.” He put his hand on Dan’s shoulder and bared some weight. “Now, how in the Sam hill could somebody enter this floor, it being under constant surveillance and all? And then have enough time to swirl gasoline around a room and light a damn match? It just doesn’t make any sense!”
&
nbsp; “Unless it’s somebody who works here. At the hospital.” Dan stated the obvious, matter-of-factly, finding it hard to believe the Chief hadn’t already made the same deduction himself. “Somebody was able to infiltrate the area without being noticed. Or somebody knows where to find hospital clothing. Where’s Central Supply?”
“Basement.”
“How else could he have been allowed access? Who were the nurses on duty? They must have seen somebody come from the elevator or the hallway. Any security? Cameras?”
“Over there.” Chief Abrams pointed to a female and a male nurse. They sat in chairs behind the nurse’s station hunkered against the back corner.
“Excuse me.” Dan showed his ID. “I’m Detective Hammer. I have some questions I need to ask you.”
Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) Page 16
