by Gary Birken
He had never been a man prone to making capricious choices. In fact, he would defend forever that taking Hawkins’s life was not a decision at all—it was a moral imperative. He imagined that there were unenlightened individuals who might consider his actions unthinkable, but it made no difference. Irrespective of what the future held for him, he would never feel the need to explain himself to anybody—especially anyone who didn’t cling to the same moral ideology as he did. He was quite comfortable in his own skin, required nobody’s approbation, and had no qualms about remaining an unsung hero.
Heavy in thought, he reached forward and flipped on a small brass lamp that sat on the corner of his desk. If he had a single regret in life, it was that he hadn’t, in fact, fulfilled his enduring passion of entering the world of academia. Only in the university environment would he have been recognized as a true luminary and given the opportunity to share his wisdom with young, impressionable minds. It would have been a more noble life than his present one, and one that would have pleased his mother.
He lightly rubbed his ears. The incessant ringing showed no signs of easing off. He again pledged to himself that he wouldn’t allow the inexplicable annoyance to affect him in any way. Looking down at a white legal pad, he studied the list of names he had carefully printed months earlier. He moved forward in his chair, picked up a black fountain pen, and drew a single line through the second name on the list. After a momentary pause, he drew another line identical to the first. And then, as if his hand were being guided by a mind of its own, he ran the bold nib back and forth through the name. Only when it had become indecipherable, did he stop and slip the pen back into its granite base.
Feeling the fatigue of the day and with nothing further to do, he turned off his tarnished brass desk lamp, stood up from his desk, and headed for the door. After crossing an expansive foyer, he climbed a spiral wooden staircase that led to the master bedroom. The only light in the room shone from a wall-mounted flat-screen television. The volume had been muted by the woman who lay asleep in the wood-carved canopied bed. After studying her face for a minute, he crept silently to within a few feet of her.
She was not the woman he had fallen in love with, and it was only when he closed his eyes that he could remember her saintly face. He wanted to kiss her on her forehead but he knew it would be a futile gesture. He picked up the remote control from her night table and turned off the television. Finally, he walked over to the opposite side of the bed, got undressed, and quietly slipped under the covers. In the darkness, he could feel the regular cadence of her breathing.
He closed his eyes for a time, but sleep evaded him. His mind focused on the next name on his list. He knew Morgan Connolly’s death alone would never be sufficient atonement for her role in the death of his sons. He would therefore see to it that before she was ushered off to hell, she would suffer so unbearably that she would envy the dead.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 10
DAY ONE
It had been two weeks since her father’s funeral, and it was Morgan’s first day back in the office.
The first week following his death had been the worst. Fortunately, she had many friends who had lost a parent, and they were all anxious to offer her words of encouragement. A few days earlier she realized two important facts. The first being that she would always miss her father dearly; and the second being it was time to get back to work.
Sitting at her desk trying to catch up on a long list of administrative responsibilities, Morgan barely heard the three quick raps on her door. When she finally looked up, she saw Benjamin Docherty standing in her doorway. As usual, he was casually dressed. Just the sight of him brought an easy smile to her face.
“Come in,” she said, gesturing him forward. “What are you doing here? I thought you had retired from medicine.”
“I’m just here for a visit,” he said taking the chair across from her. He turned it to the side, allowing him the extra room he needed to stretch out his lanky legs. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”
“I think I’ll miss him for a long time, but I feel okay and I think I’m ready to get back to work.”
“About five years ago, my parents both died unexpectedly within a few months of each other. I don’t think you ever get completely over it.”
“I’ve been meaning to call and thank you,” she said.
Looking a little perplexed, he asked, “Thank me for what?”
“For being such a great friend through the worst few weeks of my life.” Ben’s normally tanned face instantly reddened.
Three years older than she, Ben had the same agile build as Kevin but his facial features were softer and more contoured. Before he gave up the practice of internal medicine to open a flight school, he and Morgan had shared in the care of dozens of patients and had served on several hospital committees together. They agreed on most issues and had a similar problem-solving style, but it was their mutual passion for flying that was the cornerstone of their friendship. Morgan had never thought of Ben as a complicated man. He was a die-hard bachelor, and although he claimed he simply hadn’t found the love of his life, Morgan suspected he suffered from the same commitment phobia that plagued most single male doctors. She didn’t find many men physically attractive, but Ben was a noteworthy exception.
Morgan asked, “No lessons today?”
“Actually, I have one this afternoon. He’s a nervous eighth-grade English teacher who combines no instinct for flying with closing his eyes on every takeoff and landing.”
“Sounds like an interesting way to fly an airplane.”
“It’s been a little scary for the both of us.”
She laughed. “I guess you should have thought of that before you gave up that booming practice you had.”
“I’ll take a hundred nervous flying students over an office full of hypochondriacs any day of the week.”
“What happened to your driving passion to save mankind?” she asked.
“Let’s just say that the day-to-day practice of internal medicine didn’t turn out to be as advertised in med school and residency. “
“So you have no regrets about getting out?” she prodded.
“None,” he assured her. “If you had any sense, you’d get out too. Just say the word and I’ll make you a partner in my flight school.”
Morgan smiled. “I’m not exactly in a position to retire. Of the two of us, I’m not the one who sold their medical software company for fifteen million dollars.”
“I thought the sale price was confidential.”
“Not according to the Miami Herald.”
Stroking his two-day stubble, Ben said, “I don’t think I remember that article.”
“Sure you do. It was the one where they referred to you as Dade County’s most eligible bachelor. As I recall, you crowed about it for a month.” She closed the file she had been reviewing. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Go ahead,” he told her.
“Why would somebody who already had a degree in biomedical engineering, a master’s in business administration from Wharton, and their own computer software company even apply to medical school?”
With a light shrug of his shoulders, he answered, “I don’t know. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.” He reached forward, plucked a mint from a crystal candy dish, and unwrapped it. “Have the police come up with anything?”
“Not really.”
“It’s only been a couple of weeks.”
“Actually, two weeks is considered a long time in a murder investigation, especially if you don’t have a single decent lead.”
He grinned. “When did you become an expert on murder investigations?”
“It’s a new millennium, Ben. There’s a world of information on the Internet.”
“When was the last time you spoke to the police?”
“I called the lead detective on the case a couple of days ago. He was very polite but . . .”
“Poli
te’s nice,” Ben said, taking note that her face was cast in frustration, “but what you need is information. He must have said something.”
“Not really. He mostly tap-danced around things. The police have a strict policy that prohibits them from discussing a lot of the details of a criminal investigation with anybody—especially family members. I didn’t get the feeling he’s too optimistic about making an arrest in the foreseeable future.”
“Did you discuss the autopsy results with him? I’m not a detective, but causing somebody to die of a collapsed lung can’t be the type of thing they see every day.”
“He didn’t say anything about that but he still thinks the murderer knew my father. He’s guessing he was a disgruntled patient or family member who went off the deep end. The problem is that nobody who works in my father’s office has been able to come up with a single patient who comes close to fitting the profile.” Morgan paused just long enough to push her chair a little closer to her desk. “When you consider that my father took care of thousands of people in his career, it makes the prospect of finding his murderer gloomy at best.”
“Why would the police look at his entire career? If anybody was furious enough at their doctor to murder him, I would suspect they would act sooner rather than later.”
“I would have no way of knowing that.”
“What’s the detective’s name?”
“Wolfe.”
“You could try speaking to somebody higher up in the department,” Ben suggested.
“If I go over his head, he’s going to find out about it, which will only make things worse. I suspect he already has me la beled as a grief-stricken relative who is overly involved in the investigation. The other problem is that he and his partner are obviously overworked. He reminds me every time we talk that my father’s murder is not the only investigation he’s working on.” Morgan pulled the legal pad closer. Mindlessly drawing overlapping circles. “I can’t let this thing go just because the police are overworked. I am going to go over to my father’s office. I want to speak to his office manager and anybody else who was there that day.”
Looking at her askance, he said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re launching your own investigation.”
“Call it what you want, Ben. I need answers.”
He uncrossed his ankles and pulled his legs in. “I know you’re frustrated. And I would never tell you I understand how you feel or what you should do . . . but—”
“But what?”
“I just think you might want to give this a little more thought before you go charging headlong into something that might create real problems for you.”
“Listen, Ben. I can’t sit back, do nothing, and pretend none of this ever happened. My father didn’t raise me to sit in the back of the bus.”
“I’m not telling you to abandon the issue. I’m only suggesting you tap on the brakes a little. Even if you’re not thrilled with the progress of the investigation so far, you might want to consider giving the police a little more time.”
“I’m not sure more time will make a difference.”
“You’re also going to have to consider the possibility that the man who murdered your father may be impossible to find. In spite of what the police think, he may be an untreated schizophrenic who had no connection at all to your father.”
In a shared silence, Morgan came to her feet and then walked around behind her chair.
Her voice was calm but echoed with resolve. “Sane or psychotic, I despise him. I couldn’t care less if he’s completely normal or if his soul is so full of demons he can barely breathe.” She placed her hands on top of the chair. “I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he doesn’t get away with what he did to my father.” Ben was just about to make another plea for restraint when Morgan held her hand up. “If you’re going to suggest I take a knee on this thing, you’re wasting your time.”
Ben had known Morgan long enough to realize that trying to dissuade her from doing anything she had made up her mind about would be like trying to sink a battleship with a flyswatter. After a few seconds of thought, his gaze returned to Morgan.
Her face had suddenly turned the color of chalk.
“For God’s sake, Morgan. You look like a ghost. Are you okay?” He stood up and walked around to her side of her desk. “I’m sorry if I said anything to upset you, but I was only trying to—”
With her chin pressed against her chest, she held up her hand to silence him. Speaking between quick breaths, she said, “Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with our conversation. I’ll be okay. It’s been happening a lot lately.”
Morgan yanked open the top drawer of her desk and snatched a packet of saltines. Tearing off the wrapper, she popped one in her mouth. While she chomped away at it, she grabbed for an open can of warm Coke that was sitting on her desk. She took two long swallows. When she put the can down, she looked up at Ben. His lips were sealed together in an obvious attempt to conceal a smile.
“Coke and crackers,” he said. “That’s an interesting mid-morning snack.”
She waited until she swallowed the second cracker and said, “I was going to tell you.”
“That’s great news. How far along are you?”
“About eight weeks.”
“Tell Kevin I said congrats.”
“If I ever see him again, I will,” she answered, seeing no reason to play cat-and-mouse games with him regarding the shambles of her marriage. She gulped down more of the Coke. The nausea started to pass. She inhaled deeply and let the breath slip out gradually.
“I’m sorry, Morgan. I didn’t mean to pry—”
“You’re not prying. Actually, I assumed you knew.”
“I guess I’ve had an inkling for the last few months. When I didn’t see Kevin at the funeral . . . well, I kind of guessed things weren’t going so well. What does he think about you being pregnant?”
“I haven’t told him yet.” Morgan looked directly at Ben. “Please keep this between you and me for a while. The only other person I’ve told is Jenny Silverman. The last thing I need right now is to be the latest grist for Dade Presbyterian’s gossip mill.”
“She’s an excellent obstetrician.”
“And a good friend.”
“Your color’s coming back,” he said, pointing to her face. He returned to his chair. “I guess these things can get pretty complicated in a—”
“There’s nothing complicated about it. Kevin’s been drowning in a sea of self-pity for a long time. When my capacity for understanding began to wither, he found a more sympathetic and much younger emotional buoy to hang on to.”
“Is there any chance of working things out?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about counseling?”
“Kevin doesn’t believe in it.”
“You could go alone.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“It’s like getting on a seesaw by yourself. It’s tough to make much progress,” she explained, tossing the wrapper from the crackers into the trash. “Let’s not talk about Kevin anymore. It may bring back my nausea.”
Ben grinned. “Are you going to stop flying?”
“Not a chance.”
“Good,” he said. “How about Saturday?”
“What time?”
“How does one sound?”
“I’ll be there.”
Just before he reached the door, he said, “Look, Morgan. I’m hardly an expert on relationships but if you need somebody to talk to . . . I mean, all you have to do is pick up the phone.”
“I appreciate the offer, Ben.”
“Congrats again,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll give you a call later.”
Ben followed a short corridor to the back stairwell. He yanked open the door and started down three flights of gray concrete stairs. He thought about Kevin and the two times he had approached him to invest in one of his wild enterprises. Being savvy enough to reco
gnize blue smoke and shady business ethics when he saw them, Ben had politely passed both times. The experience had left him wondering how Morgan could be married to such an unprincipled individual. He never discussed his negative impression of Kevin with her, but he suspected she knew how he felt.
Reaching the ground floor, he pushed open the heavy metal door that accessed the street. Ben considered himself an introspective man who was well aware of his shortcomings. Being dishonest with himself wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t deny that a part of him felt true remorse for the emotional trauma Morgan would face going through a divorce. But a larger, perhaps more selfish, part was gladdened by the prospect of Morgan being single. He never denied his romantic feelings for her, but he always played by the rules and kept them in check.
Walking along the side of the hospital to the crosswalk, he gazed skyward. It was a perfect day for flying. When the light changed, he started across the street. Was it not for his well-developed sense of self-restraint, he would have surely smiled from ear to ear.
CHAPTER 11
DAY TWO
At ten minutes past seven in the morning, a deeply sedated Tony Wallace was wheeled into operating room number three.
A native Floridian, the talented reporter for the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel had spent his career moving from one assignment to the next at a pace that reflected how many unpaid bills lay stacked upon his desk. Fifty-nine years of age and forty pounds overweight, Wallace had been smoking two packs of Camels a day since he had enlisted in the navy a week after his eighteenth birthday.
In spite of his ill-advised lifestyle and laissez-faire attitude toward his health, he had never had a serious problem until two years ago when he began having chest pain. After an extensive evaluation and a lengthy trial of controlling his coronary artery disease with medications, his family doctor referred him to Dr. Kirby McBride for surgical evaluation. After several meetings, Wallace decided to proceed with the bypass procedure.
