Cuffed

by James Murray

  Cuffed

  A Short Story

  Written by James J. Murray

  Published by Interaction Media Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2015 James J. Murray

  This book is licensed for your personal use only. It may not be re-sold or distributed to other people. If you would like to share this story with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the intellectual property and hard work of this author.

  About the Author and Some Important Acknowledgements

  Years ago I was that pharmacist behind the prescription counter. I worked a graveyard shift for five years as a retail pharmacist while working on my advanced clinical degree. I often thought that one night I would be robbed of either money or narcotics—or possibly both—during those long quiet evenings behind the prescription counter.

  Parts of this story are fictionalized for an extra dose of drama. The basic story—that a rough-looking guy came in one night and presented me with an altered prescription—actually did happen, however. It’s also true that the man got himself caught in the blood pressure machine precisely at the time the police arrived. It was a memorable experience with an interesting outcome.

  This story has been in the back of my mind for a couple of decades and I’m delighted to now share it with you. I hope you enjoy this and my other works, especially my upcoming novel Lethal Medicine, which will be out later this month.

  Like Cuffed , Lethal Medicine draws on my past pharmaceutical experiences to create a story intertwined into a lethal concoction of Murder, Mayhem and Medicine.

  None of this would have been possible without the support and encouragement of my wife Ginger. She managed house, kids and a job long ago while I worked nights to further my career. More recently she encouraged me to unlock my brain, share my imagination and write the stories that have been bouncing around my gray matter all these years.

  I thank my fellow authors of the Author Social Media Support Group who initially encouraged me to write this story of an ill-fated prescription forger. And I thank my fellow writers in the Writing Workshop II Group and also the Long Form Critique Group. They offered advice and critiques to refine and tighten this story for publication.

  My publishing agent, Joel Scott, deserves some special thanks for guiding me through the ever-changing publication process and for believing that I might have a bit of writing talent.

  To all of my Facebook and Twitter fans, I am grateful for your support and your continued promotion of my weekly “Prescription For Murder” blog. Know that you are truly appreciated.

  And finally to you, my reader, who has taken time out of your life to allow me to share a little of my real and imaginary world. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  James J. Murray

  Website: http://www.jamesjmurray.com/

  Blog: http://jamesjmurray.wordpress.com/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jamesjmurraywriter

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/JamesJMurray1

  Cuffed

  I parked in the lot of the 24-hour pharmacy at precisely 9:55 P.M. and walked toward the store to begin my shift—the graveyard shift. I heard thunder in the distance. A storm’s rolling in, I thought. It’s going to be slow tonight. I shivered and pulled the coat collar tighter around my neck.

  As I arrived at the prescription counter, the pharmacist I was relieving patted my shoulder and said, “It’s all yours.” He grabbed his coat, turned and walked out as if I no longer existed.

  A few customers roamed the aisles and a couple of people stopped by to pick up prescriptions called in earlier. At midnight, the assistant manager—flat butt, no hips, a pimply-faced string bean—walked over and handed me the keys to his kingdom.

  He repeated his nightly script. “Sam, my man, time for me to go home and take care of the wife—if you know what I mean.” He looked like he was twelve and I thought of asking him if he knew what that meant, but I resisted. He gave me a smug smile, spun around and walked out of my life for another 24 hours.

  Now in charge, I relaxed and prepared to do some studying. That’s the whole reason I work this upside-down shift—so I can study and still pay the bills. I sleep some in the morning, go to class for an advanced clinical degree in the afternoon and work all night.

  Fortunately, the overnight shift is always dead, but I never say that. Not in front of the customers anyway. It’s bad karma, what with all the robberies and shootings in the news. But it’s quiet most of the time. Even though the drugstore is located in the heart of San Antonio’s medical center, with seven hospitals within a two-mile radius, there’s little store traffic during the wee hours of the morning.

  A quick set of instructions to Jeremy, my clerk and the only other employee in the store, kept him busy in-between helping the occasional customer.

  I heard a strange noise, like metal clanging, and realized that rain was pelting the roof. Maybe it’s hail. It’s going to be an easy night.

  I pulled out the research paper I had been working on for the last week and continued my analysis of recent cardiac drug studies. My goal was to develop a noteworthy comparison solely to impress my clinical professors.

  When I began to formulate a particularly witty conclusion, I heard the door chime. I looked up robotically. The pharmacy is situated at the rear of the store and elevated about a foot above the retail space. I usually looked up when the door chimed since I had a panoramic view of the entire store and anyone entering it.

  This customer was a twenty-something white male. He was dressed in oversized jeans about to fall to his knees and a hoodie. Walking in, he pulled the hood down, retrieved a baseball cap from his back pocket and put it on backwards.

  He rubbed his face with jittery hands and I got suspicious. I realized I was profiling him and almost turned my attention back to my research paper. A funny feeling in my gut, however, made me decided to keep an eye on the man a little longer.

  He looked around, spotted the prescription counter and shuffled toward me. He looked down every aisle before approaching the pharmacy. Acid churned in my stomach and inched up my esophagus like an expanding bubble. This is it, I thought. I’m about to be robbed.

  The man circled the store twice before walking up to the counter. He grimaced slightly as he stood there. I looked at his hands for a possible gun or a note demanding the store’s cash—or worse yet, all the narcotics. His hands were empty but they were shaking. A meth head, I decided.

  Shifting from one foot to the other, he grinned. I saw a few empty spaces where teeth should have been. I hesitated for as long as I dared, squared my shoulders and walked toward him. I positioned myself behind the cash register, the only barrier in sight.

  He handed me a piece of paper. “I’m in a lot of pain. Can you rush this?”

  I looked at the form. It was a special triplicate prescription, the kind doctors use only for strong narcotics. The order was for Percocet tablets, a popular pain-reliever containing oxycodone. I frowned and looked at him. He frowned also, stepped back and asked, “What?”

  Words failed me. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. Looking at the paper again, I recognized the physician’s signature. I’d seen it often enough on other late night prescriptions. I exhaled audibly, decided to ignore the incongruity of a street dude presenting a legitimate narcotic prescription and said, “No problem. It’s an unusual order from an ER physician. I’ll see if I have it in stock.”

  While I walked to the narcotic safe, I studied the paper and stopped dead in my tracks. The prescription had been altered. An obvious number one had been added in front of the original quantity of twenty. The c
hange to one hundred and twenty tablets was subtle but the ink was not quite a match.

  I was holding a forgery! Now what?

  Verify, popped into my mind. Before I did anything else, I had to confirm that the doctor had not sloppily changed the original quantity. I walked to the other end of my workspace, as far from the register as possible, and called the emergency room. The doctor confirmed that only twenty tablets had been ordered.

  “I should never have prescribed oxy,” the physician blurted out. “That guy came in with a nasty gash to his torso. I stitched him up and prescribed hydrocodone. He said he was allergic to it.” The doctor was silent for a moment before adding, “It was a jagged wound, could have been self-inflicted now that I think about it. Cancel the order and call the police.”

  I agreed and hung up. I mentally reviewed company policy as stated in the handbook. “When presented with a suspected forged prescription, call the police if you can. Always be discreet and keep yourself safe .”

  Feeling isolated, I glanced toward the patient waiting area. The man was staring at me. I smiled, he smiled and I could taste bile and stomach acid burning my throat. I managed to shout out, “Got you covered. Take a seat and I’ll have it out in about 10 minutes.” He nodded and sat in one of the customer chairs opposite the counter.

  Moving to the computer, I pretended to process the order. I stopped abruptly, as if a call had just come in, and answered a dead line. I slowly dialed 911, identified myself and quietly reported, “I’ve got a forged prescription in progress and need immediate assistance.”

  The 911 operator took pertinent information and said, “Stall for time. The streets are slick and all police cruisers in the area are dispatched to traffic accidents.” She promised to redirect one as soon as possible.

  About that time a familiar customer walked up to the counter. She was a nurse from one of the hospital ER’s, a different one from where the forgery originated. Usually with dark circles under her eyes from a long night, she’d come in to shop and wind down from her shift before heading home. After several times of merely waving, we started talking and became friends.

  She brushed rain out of her hair and asked, “How’s it going tonight, Sam?”

  I looked from her to the forger and got back with the 911 operator. “Please hurry. He’s staring at me and I’ve got another customer here.” I disconnected and walked up to the nurse. “Hi, Mary. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Yeah, I waved but you didn’t look up.”

  “I’m kind of busy right now.” I turned toward the forger. He seemed to be concentrating on my every word. “I have to take care of this patient.”

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the man. “I have a quick question for the pharmacist.” She looked back at me. “How strong are these asthma inhalers you have out front here? My son’s running out of his prescription and I forgot to ask one of the docs to write a new one.” She nodded toward the front door. “With this rain, I’d hate to go back for a script.”

  “I don’t think they’d be strong enough from what you’ve told me about his asthma. I could call one of your ER docs and take a phone order.”

  She smiled and pulled a card from her pocket. “Call this doc. He’s a friend. He’ll be happy to give you the order.” She wrote the name of the inhaler her son was using on the back of the card. “I’ll browse the aisles while I wait.” She turned toward the forger. “Sorry to jump ahead.” She took a closer look at the man and asked, “Are you okay? You look pale. Maybe you should use that blood pressure machine over there to check your vitals.”

  He shrugged but didn’t say anything. Mary raised an eyebrow and stared at the man for a moment longer before walking off to shop.

  I looked toward the guy and grinned. He asked, “How much longer, man?” He held his side and winced. He appeared to lose focus.

  “Maybe you should check your blood pressure. Are you feeling light-headed?”

  “I’m fine. Just fill the prescription, okay?”

  “I’ll get right on it.” I moved to my computer and continued the pretense of processing his order. At the same time, I wedged the phone between my ear and chin and dialed 911 again. I got a different operator. I explained my situation quietly and asked, “What’s taking so long? He’s getting nervous.”

  “I pulled up your emergency and it’s dispatched to the next available officer. The problem is there are several weather-related traffic accidents—”

  “I know, but this guy’s getting nervous and I can’t stall him much longer.”

  “The closest cruiser is dealing with injuries. As soon as they’re free, they’ll be on their way. I’m bumping up your priority now.”

  I glanced toward the forger. He was looking straight at me. He nodded and sat in one of the customer chairs. I nodded back, turned toward my computer and stared at the screen. I took this job so that I could study, not catch criminals. Maybe I should say I don’t have the drug in stock. He could go to another pharmacy, be someone else’s problem. I knew I couldn’t do that—wouldn’t do that—and sighed. Wait it out. Help will be here soon.

  Hoping to see a blue uniform enter, I glanced toward the front door. None appeared but I saw another regular customer walk in. No, this isn’t happening. First Mary and now I’ve got Ms. Huffington in the store.

  Ms. Huffington was a gentle, white-haired lady with insomnia. After a few conversations with her, I realized she was lonely and came in for some company. She’d ask silly questions to pass the time. At first I was irritated by the distraction from my studies, but soon I looked forward to our conversations. I watched her shake out her rain-soaked umbrella, close it and head my way. No, I can’t deal with you now. Go do your shopping.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw the guy get up from his chair and step toward me. I backed away from the computer instinctively, stopping only when the phone cord threatened to come out of the wall.

  He turned, strolled to the condom aisle and scanned the merchandise. He leaned over to read a label and his hoodie rode up, revealing a gun tucked in the back of his pants. More bile and acid surged up my esophagus. The mix was about to erupt like a volcano.

  Where’d he get the gun? He couldn’t have had it in the ER! Maybe he had it hidden in his car. Maybe he has an accomplice waiting out there now. If the police don’t hurry, I could be facing more guys like this one . . . with guns . . . in the store . . . with customers around.

  I took a deep breath. Why doesn’t he point that gun at me, demand all the narcotics and get this over with? I dialed 911 again. I recognized the voice of the original operator I had spoken to. “This is the pharmacist with the forgery in progress. He’s got a gun and he’s in the condom aisle.”

  “The police aren’t there?”

  “No! What’s taking them so long?”

  “Is he pointing it at you?”

  “The gun?”

  “Yes, where’s the gun?”

  “In his pants—the gun, not the condoms.”

  “I understand, sir. Please take a deep breath. Your emergency is now top priority. Police will be with you shortly.”

  “Tell them to hurry! I’ve got a horny, impatient forger watching my every move and he’s got a gun in his pants. And there are other customers in the store about to get in the middle of this mess.” I scanned the store and saw Jeremy talking to Ms. Huffington, Mary strolling two aisles over and the forger reading condom labels. “I can’t protect everyone. Someone’s bound to get hurt.”

  “Please stay calm. Can I call you Sam?”

  “What?”

  “Earlier you said your name was Sam Delaney. Can I call you Sam?”

  I looked at the phone, shook my head and put the phone back to my ear. “Sure, call me whatever you like. Just get the police here.”

  “They’re on their way, only a few minutes out. Act like you’re working on his prescription but stall.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing, lady?”

  I picked up the n
earest bottle and aggressively shook the pills inside, hoping the rattle made me sound busy. I looked up and the guy was at the counter again, peering over the register. “Man, you going to shake that bottle all night or fill my prescription?”

  “The computer’s slow, probably the weather, but it’s processing your paperwork now.” I cupped my hand over the phone and nodded toward it. I pasted a smile on my face. “And I’ve got this customer on the phone asking a thousand questions. Sit tight a few more minutes, okay?”

  “Whatever, man.” The guy rubbed his head with a shaky hand, held his side and walked back to the condom aisle.

  The emergency operator said, “I’m still with you, Sam. Help is maybe three minutes out.”