Stress Test

by Richard Mabry

  Matt didn’t wait for an acknowledgment, but snapped the curtain shut as he left. He could see the question in Randy’s eyes, so he addressed it as they walked to the work area shared by the nurses and ER physicians. “So why didn’t I give him something for pain? Right?”

  “The man was obviously hurting,” Randy said.

  “You could call me cynical, although I prefer to think of it as being experienced,” Matt said. “One of the most common ploys of a drug addict hurting for a fix is to fake either severe back pain or a kidney stone. It’s become common enough that we have to confirm their story objectively first. Otherwise we’d become a Demerol- and morphine-dispensing station.”

  “Why not get a urinalysis? Simple enough. Microscopic hematuria would confirm a stone.”

  Matt shook his head. “These guys are smarter than that. Sometimes they prick their finger with a pin and seed their specimen with a couple of drops of blood. And there are other ways to get blood into their urine, ways that would make most people cringe. Addicts will do anything when they’re hurting for a fix.”

  Matt finished scribbling a few notes. He handed the chart to the ER secretary and said, “He’s going for a CT. Let me know when it’s done.” Then he led Randy off to examine more patients.

  Almost an hour later, Matt jerked a thumb toward the back of the ER and said, “Let’s get some more of that terrible coffee, Randy.”

  In the break room, the first words out of Randy’s mouth were, “How did you know that patient didn’t have a kidney stone?”

  “Someone with a kidney stone can’t get comfortable. They’re in constant motion, looking for a position that relieves the pain, but there isn’t one. This guy was totally still when I walked in, and he was already settling down when I left.”

  “Why did he go ahead with the CT?”

  “There’s always a chance that some ER doc will over-read an X-ray and call a spot somewhere a renal calculus. And as long as there’s a possibility of a fix, these patients will do anything.” Matt sniffed at his coffee and tossed the nearly full cup in the wastebasket. “Even hold still for a CT.”

  “I saw him after you talked to him to give him the X-ray results. He’d ripped out his IV and was hurrying toward the door, dripping blood from his wrist.”

  “He’ll staunch the bleeding, wait a bit, and try another emergency room.”

  Randy sipped from his cup, made a wry face, and, like Matt, tossed his Styrofoam cup into the trash. “I guess I have a lot to learn if I want to do emergency medicine.”

  “You’ll do fine, especially if you take a residency in the specialty.”

  “You didn’t?”

  Matt finished his coffee. “My training and practice were in general surgery. I sort of got pushed into emergency medicine by circumstances.” He stood and started back to the ER. “But you know, even though I’ve had to do some learning on the fly, it’s been pretty good.” Of course, I might be hauled off to jail tomorrow, but right now I’m enjoying the experience.

  Lou and Edgar crouched motionless in the darkness of Matt Newman’s kitchen. All Lou could hear were the sounds of an empty house: the refrigerator cycling on and off, an occasional creak common to older homes, a muted whoosh as the air conditioner delivered cool air. He pointed a gloved finger toward the stairway, then put his mouth next to Edgar’s ear. “Check upstairs. I’ll look around down here. Make sure no one’s home.”

  Three minutes later, they reassembled at the foot of the staircase. “No one around,” Edgar said. “Where do you want to wait for him? The living room?”

  Lou drew a penlight from his pocket and checked his watch. Ten thirty. Newman would be home in about an hour. The timing seemed right. “Yeah, let’s move in there.”

  Once in the living room, Lou checked to make sure the drapes were drawn before turning on a table lamp. He let out an involuntary sigh as light erased the shadows in the room. Two men poised in the dark made him think of a scene from a horror movie. In this case, though, Lou knew how it was going to play out.

  “I’ll get behind the door. You stand there in the center of the room with your gun in your hand.” Lou pointed. “I’ll kill the light before he gets here, and when he turns it on you’ll be the first one he sees. He’ll probably turn around to run. That’s when I step out from behind the door and shoot him.”

  Edgar edged back until Lou said, “That’s perfect.”

  “There’s a chair here. Why don’t I sit down until we hear him outside?” Edgar said.

  “Okay, but first, let me have that extra gun I asked for.”

  Edgar pulled a revolver from his pocket and handed it over, butt-first. Lou took the revolver, pulled a dirty handkerchief from his hip pocket, and wiped the piece carefully.

  “Good idea,” Edgar said. “We can press his hand on it after he’s dead so it’ll have his fingerprints.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a better idea,” Lou said. He pointed the revolver at Edgar and shot him five times in the chest.

  The little man slumped to the floor with a soft sigh like air escaping from a balloon. The smell of cordite and death hung in the room.

  Lou pocketed the pistol and rummaged in Edgar’s pockets with gloved hands until he found two plastic baggies. He opened one, wet his finger and tasted a tiny bit of the contents, then dropped that bag into his pocket. He spilled white powder from the other on the floor and dropped the partially opened container near his former partner’s outstretched left arm.

  Edgar’s own gun already lay next to the corpse’s right hand. Perfect. Lou took a moment to survey the scene. Had he forgotten anything? The money! He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and shoved them into Edgar’s. Shame to leave that money behind, but it was necessary.

  One last glance, then Lou turned off the light and let himself out the front door.

  As he walked quickly to his car, Lou had no second thoughts about what he’d done.

  No, if somebody had to be thrown off the sleigh, better Edgar than him.

  EIGHTEEN

  As he walked to his car, Matt felt a familiar tingle between his shoulder blades. He’d left off the Kevlar vest tonight—too bulky, too hot, too much trouble. He kicked himself for doing it, and quickened his pace as he navigated through the shadowy spaces of the parking garage. Matt unlocked the car, opened the driver’s side door, and swept his gaze over the backseat and floor space to make sure he was alone. Only when he was certain did he hurry inside and push the door lock button.

  Matt leaned back and took a deep breath. He’d been too busy all evening to break for food, making do with coffee and sodas snatched between patients. A burger and fries sounded good. After all, there was no reason to hurry home.

  He drove to his favorite drive-through fast food restaurant, only to discover it was closed for renovations. I saw the sign last week and completely forgot. It took Matt another fifteen minutes to find something that was still open. He ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and large Coke. The cook seemed to be in no hurry to get the order ready. Matt hoped that would mean fries fresh from the deep fryer, instead of a batch that had sat under a heat lamp for half an hour. When a hand delivered the food through the window, Matt breathed in the rich aroma of grilled meat and hot grease and decided to pull around into the parking lot to eat before the food got cold.

  By the time he turned into the street leading to his house, Matt was yawning. But what he saw ahead brought him fully awake. Police cars and emergency vehicles were parked helter-skelter in the street, their red and blue strobes painting a surreal picture over the area. Yellow tape cordoned the front of his house.

  He eased his car past a police cruiser and an ambulance before a patrolman stopped him. “Crime scene, sir. No one allowed in here.”

  “Uh . . . it’s my house,” Matt managed to say. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re the person who lives here?”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “Can you—”

  “Sir, please step out of the car. Keep your ha
nds where I can see them at all times.” The policeman’s voice was firm, and suddenly there was a pistol in his hand.

  Matt complied. “What’s—”

  “Sir, please lean against the car with both arms out. Spread your legs.”

  Matt had seen this on TV but never imagined it could happen to him.

  The policeman’s tone told Matt he meant business. “Stay in that position, please.” Then he yelled, “Murphy, Rogers. Get over here. This is our man.”

  Scuffling feet approached, then another voice said, “Just stay as you are. No sudden moves.”

  Matt thought he’d been subjected to indignity at the hands of TSA screeners at the airport, but that was a breeze compared with what followed. Brisk hands frisked him, ripping away the tape that held a scalpel to Matt’s ankle. The policeman gave a low whistle when he found the pepper spray in Matt’s pocket. “You’re ready for anything, aren’t you?”

  “I can explain,” Matt said.

  “Save it. Now step back and turn around. Put your hands up and keep them where I can see them.” Matt did so and saw that the first policeman, his gun still trained on him, had been joined by two others, a man and a woman. The newcomers hadn’t drawn their guns, but their hands hovered near their weapons, and the retaining straps of the holsters were unsnapped.

  The man had sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves, and he took charge. “With your thumb and forefinger remove your wallet from your pocket. Take out your driver’s license and show it to us.”

  Matt complied.

  “Okay, you can put it back.” He spoke into a microphone clipped to the epaulet of his dark blue uniform, his voice too low for Matt to understand the words.

  “Can I put my hands down?” Matt asked.

  “Not yet,” the sergeant said.

  Matt bowed his head, not so much in prayer as in defeat. He’d been through so much, and now apparently there was going to be more piled on him. He closed his eyes. Lord, I don’t understand. I can’t stand much more—

  “Well, well, just the man we wanted to see.”

  Matt recognized the voice and his heart sank. He looked up to see Detective Virgil Grimes, his grin like a death’s head on Halloween.

  “Is he clean?” Grimes asked.

  “He had what looked like a surgical knife taped to his ankle, and a canister of pepper spray in his pocket. No gun.”

  Matt swallowed three times before he could get the words out. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what we hoped you could tell us,” Grimes said. He jerked his head toward one of the cars. “Take him to the station. We’ll question him there.”

  “Wait,” Matt said. “Why won’t you tell me what happened? Why can’t I go into my house?”

  “Because it’s a crime scene,” Grimes said. “We’re searching it right now, and I’ll bet what we find is going to put you away for a long time.”

  Sandra heard the noise but couldn’t process it. Not her alarm clock—that was a buzz guaranteed to have her feet on the floor and her hand slapping the off button in a matter of seconds. Not the telephone. Not the smoke alarm. But something was most definitely assaulting her eardrums and interrupting her sleep.

  Cell phone. That was it. She turned on the bedside lamp, snatched up her phone, and answered, hoping it was something important. She’d been awakened occasionally by wrong numbers, usually from drunks unable to navigate the keyboard of their phones. If that’s what this was, she’d give the caller an earful, guaranteed to sober him up. “Sandra—” she croaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Sandra Murray.”

  “Sandra, this is Matt. I was about to give up on you, and I think I only get one phone call.”

  “Matt? Where are you?”

  “I’m at police headquarters. They say someone was killed in my house while I was at work tonight—last night, I guess it is now—and they suspect me.”

  Sandra swung around and slid her feet into slippers. Automatically, she checked her bedside clock. A little after one a.m. She shrugged a robe over her shoulders. “Are you under arrest?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t say I was, didn’t handcuff me. Just brought me here in the back of a police car. They said they wanted me to answer some questions.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Detective Grimes and his partner.”

  “Tell him you have nothing to say until your attorney is present. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  By this time Sandra was in the kitchen. She flipped the switch on her coffeemaker, glad she’d followed her usual routine of having it ready to brew when she awoke. She had a hunch she had a long night ahead of her. While the coffee bubbled into the carafe, she pulled a suit and blouse out of the closet and headed for the shower. When Sandra strode into the police station, she wanted to appear in charge—even if she didn’t much feel like it right now.

  As soon as Sandra entered the interview room, she saw a disheveled and beaten-down Matt Newman. She caught his eye and shook her head. “Don’t say a word.”

  Detective Grimes turned from his seat across the table from Matt and smirked. “He hasn’t, Counselor. But that doesn’t mean he can’t listen, and I’ve been giving him an earful. Want to hear what I have to say?”

  “I need some time with my client. Please wait outside.”

  Grimes shrugged and jerked his head toward the door. Detective Ames eased away from her position against the wall and followed Grimes out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Sandra took the chair beside Matt. She opened her briefcase and pulled out a legal pad. “Have they advised you of your rights?” she asked.

  “Yes. I got the Miranda warning when they put me in the squad car for the ride here. I wanted to ask if I was under arrest, but I didn’t say anything until we got here. That’s when I said I wanted a lawyer.”

  “Good. But did they talk with you in the car?”

  “Yeah. I think they were hoping I’d react to what they were saying, but I kept my mouth shut.”

  “What did they say?”

  Matt dry-washed his face, then let his hands fall limply on the table. “They got a 911 call about gunshots at my house. The responding officers found my front door unlocked and a man inside, shot to death. He had a gun beside one hand, an open baggie of white powder in the other.”

  “And they think you’re responsible?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Obviously you weren’t there when this happened. Did you come directly home from the ER?”

  “No. I stopped for a cheeseburger after I got off. Drove home and found the place crawling with cops.”

  Sandra tapped her fingernail against her front teeth. “Okay. Let’s get Grimes and Ames back in here and see what they’ve got. Let them ask their questions. Look at me before you answer. If I nod, then give them the shortest answer possible. Don’t volunteer anything. And if I raise my hand, shut up, even if you’re in the middle of a word. Clear?”

  “Clear.”

  Matt had heard stories that, in some police stations, chairs on this side of the table had the front legs shortened slightly so suspects were always pushed forward and had to reposition themselves. Whatever the cause, he found himself constantly squirming, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.

  Grimes did it by the book. He asked permission to record the interview, repeated the Miranda warning, had Matt sign a statement that he’d been advised of his rights. After a few questions about who Matt was and what he did, the hard part started.

  “Dr. Newman, can you account for your whereabouts this past evening?”

  Sandra answered before Matt could open his mouth. “During what time frame?”

  Grimes frowned at the interruption of his questioning. “From ten p.m. to the time you arrived at your house.”

  Matt looked at Sandra, who nodded. “I was in the emergency room at Metropolitan Hospital working until eleven, maybe closer to eleven thirty. I was hungry, so I decided to eat befor
e going home.” He went on to explain his search for an open fast food restaurant. “After I finally got my food, I sat in the parking lot and ate. Then I drove home.”

  “So you have no alibi for the time from eleven thirty to twelve thirty?”

  “Not really.”

  “How about at the fast food place?”

  “I used the drive-through. I doubt that anyone would recognize me, though. I handed them my money, they handed me my food, I left.”

  “Did you use a credit card? Did you save the receipt for your food?”

  When Sandra didn’t put up the stop sign, Matt said, “No, I paid cash. And when I finished my meal, I threw the wrappers and sack in the trash, along with my receipt.” That’s what I get for not littering, I guess.

  “Detective,” Sandra said. “Why is my client implicated in all this? Do you have any evidence that he was involved in this, rather than just being an innocent victim whose house was the scene of a break-in that ended in a fight between the perpetrators?”

  “I guess you want to cut to the chase,” Grimes said. “We don’t think this was a break-in. It doesn’t appear that any door locks were forced. We think the doctor here let the dead man in to sell him drugs. It went bad, and your client shot him.”

  “So where’s the gun he used?” Sandra asked.

  Matt remembered how hard he’d fought when Sandra asked him to give her his pistol. Now he was glad he had. Otherwise one of the intruders might have found it and used it to shoot the other one.

  “We didn’t find a handgun, but there was a rifle in the house. Ballistics is working on that now.”

  “That’s—” Sandra’s glare cut Matt off.

  “I need to consult with my client,” she said.

  When the detectives were gone, Sandra asked, “I thought we’d been through this. No guns in the house, right?”

  “The rifle belongs to my brother, Joe. He asked me to keep it for him when he left home. It was on a shelf in my closet. It’s unloaded, hasn’t been fired in years. I intended to get some ammunition for it. Just haven’t got around to it yet.”