Harmful Intent

by Robin Cook

  “Any idea as to why a doctor would do such a thing?” Kelly asked.

  “That might never be determined,” Jeffrey said. “Why did Dr. X kill all those people? Why did the person put the poison in the Tylenol capsules? I don’t think anyone knows for sure. Obviously they were unstable. But saying that poses more questions than it answers. Maybe the reasons would lie within the irrational psyche of a psychotic individual who is mad at the world or mad at the medical profession or mad at hospitals and in his distorted thinking believes that this is an appropriate way to exact revenge.”

  Kelly shivered. “It terrifies me to think of a doctor like that on the loose.”

  “Me too,” Jeffrey said. “Whoever it is could be normal most of the time but suffer psychotic episodes. He or she might be the last person you’d suspect. And whoever it is, they would have to be in a position of trust to have access to so many hospital operating rooms.”

  “Do many doctors have privileges in such a range of hospitals?” Kelly asked.

  Jeffrey shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea, but checking is probably the next step. Could you get a printout from St. Joe’s of the entire professional staff?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Kelly said. “I’m very good friends with Polly Arnsdorf, the director of nursing. Would you want an employee list as well?”

  “Why not,” Jeffrey said. Her question made him think of the extraordinary access he had at Boston Memorial thanks to his position on the housekeeping staff. Jeffrey shuddered, realizing the magnitude of a hospital’s vulnerability.

  “Are you sure that we shouldn’t go to the police?” Kelly asked.

  Jeffrey shook his head. “No police, not yet,” he said. “As convincing as all this sounds to us at the moment, we have to remember that we still don’t have a lick of evidence to support our theory. So far it’s pure speculation on our part. As soon as we get some evidence that’s real, we can go to the authorities. Whether it would be the police or not, I’m not sure.”

  “But the longer we wait, the more chance there will be that the killer will strike again.”

  “I know,” Jeffrey said. “But without more evidence or the slightest idea of who the killer is, we’re not exactly in a position to stop him.”

  “Or her,” Kelly said grimly.

  Jeffrey nodded. “Or her.”

  “So what can we do to speed things up?”

  “What are the chances you could get a professional staff and an employee list from Valley Hospital? It would be best if the list was contemporary to the period during which Chris lost his patient.”

  Kelly whistled. “That’s a tall order,” she said. “I could call Hart Ruddock back, or I could try a few of the nursing supervisors I know who are still there. One way or the other, I’ll give it a shot tomorrow.”

  “And I’ll try getting the same at the Memorial,” Jeffrey said. He wondered where in the hospital he’d have to go to get such a list. “The sooner we have this information the better.”

  “Why don’t I call Polly right now?” Kelly suggested, checking the time. “She usually stays until five or so.”

  While Kelly went into the kitchen to use the phone, Jeffrey thought about the horror of another epidural disaster at St. Joe’s that day. It confirmed his contaminant theory. He was surer than ever that a Dr. X was at large in the Boston area.

  Although Jeffrey thought that a doctor was the most likely perpetrator, he acknowledged that anyone with pharmaceutical experience could have tampered with the Marcaine; it didn’t have to be an M.D. The problem was access to the drug, and that made him wonder about someone in pharmacy.

  Hanging up the phone, Kelly rejoined Jeffrey in the family room. She didn’t sit down. “Polly said I can get the list. No problem. In fact, she said that if I wanted to come right over and get it, I could. So I said I would.”

  “Wonderful,” Jeffrey said. “I only hope we get the same cooperation at the other hospitals.” He got to his feet.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “With you.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re staying here and relaxing. You look haggard. You were supposed to get some sleep today, and instead you went to the library. You stay here. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Jeffrey did as he was told. Kelly was right, he was exhausted. He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. He heard Kelly start the car and pull out, then he heard the electric garage door close. The house became quiet save for the ticking of the living room’s grandfather clock. Out in the yard a robin squawked.

  Jeffrey opened his eyes. Sleep was out of the question; he was much too restless. Instead, he got up and went into the kitchen to use the phone. He called the Medical Examiner’s office to ask about Karen Hodges. As an anesthetic complication, her fatality would have fallen into the Medical Examiner’s province.

  The secretary at the Examiner’s office told him that Karen Hodges’s autopsy was scheduled for the following morning.

  Next, Jeffrey called information to get the numbers for Commonwealth Hospital and Suffolk General. He called Commonwealth first. When the operator there picked up, Jeffrey asked for the anesthesia department. Once connected, he asked if Dr. Mann was still in the hospital.

  “Dr. Lawrence Mann?”

  “That’s right,” Jeffrey said.

  “Hell, he hasn’t worked here for well over two years.”

  “Could you tell me where he’s working?” Jeffrey asked.

  “I’m not sure exactly. Someplace in London. But he’s not practicing medicine anymore. I believe he’s in the antiques business.”

  Another casualty of the malpractice process, Jeffrey thought. He’d heard of other doctors who’d given up medicine after being sued, however frivolously. What a waste of education and talent.

  Next he placed a call to the anesthesia department of Suffolk General Hospital. A cheerful female voice answered the department’s phone.

  “Is Dr. Madaline Bowman still practicing at the hospital?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Who is this?” the woman asked, her tone decidedly less cheerful.

  “Dr. Webber,” Jeffrey said, making up a name.

  “Sorry, Dr. Webber,” the woman said. “This is Dr. Asher. I didn’t mean to sound rude. Your question took me by surprise. Not many people have asked for Dr. Bowman recently. I’m afraid she committed suicide several years ago.”

  Jeffrey slowly hung up the phone. The killer’s casualties weren’t only the victims on the operating table, Jeffrey thought grimly. What a trail of destruction! The more he thought about it, the more he was sure someone was behind this string of seemingly unrelated medical disasters: someone with access to the ORs of the hospitals involved; and someone familiar with at least basic toxicology. But who? Jeffrey was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it.

  Walking back through the house, Jeffrey went into Chris’s study. He picked up the toxicology text that he’d glanced at on his first visit to Kelly’s and brought it back to the family room. Stretching out on the couch, and kicking off his shoes, he opened the book to the index. He wanted to check the listings under the entry for Toxins.

  Devlin pulled up to the house and parked. Leaning over, he glanced at the façade. It was a nondescript brick house like so many others in the Boston area. He looked back at his list. The house was listed as the Brighton residence of one Jack Everson.

  Devlin had already been to seven Everson addresses. So far he’d had no luck whatsoever, and he was beginning to wonder if the ploy would pay off. Even if he did find this Christopher Everson, who was to say for sure the man could lead him to Rhodes? It could all be a wild-goose chase.

  Devlin was also finding the Eversons a decidedly uncooperative clan. You’d think he’d been asking these people about their sex lives and not merely if they knew a Christopher Everson. Devlin wondered what made the average person in the Boston area so damn paranoid.

  At one house he had to literally grab the grubby, beer-bellied man
and give him a good shake. That had brought the wife out, who was uglier than the man, which Devlin had thought was an accomplishment. Like some kind of cartoon character, she’d brought her rolling pin with her and threatened to hit Devlin with it unless he let go of her husband. Devlin had had to grab the rolling pin and throw it into the next yard, where there was a big, nasty German shepherd.

  After that they had settled down and sullenly told Devlin they’d never heard of a Christopher Everson. Devlin had wondered why they couldn’t have said that in the first place.

  Devlin got out of his car and stretched. No sense putting off the inevitable, he thought, much as he might like to. He climbed the steps and rang the bell, scouting out the neighborhood while he waited. The houses were nothing splashy, but the yards were well-kept.

  He again faced the door, which was covered by an aluminum storm door with two large glass panels. He hoped he wasn’t experiencing his second empty house. It would mean he’d have to drive back here if he didn’t get a tip on Christopher Everson someplace else. Devlin had already found one house empty. It had been in Watertown.

  He rang the bell again. He was about to leave when he caught sight of the occupant looking at him through the sidelight window to the right of the door. The man was another beauty with a beer-belly profile. He was wearing a tank-top undershirt that could not cover the full expanse of his abdomen. Tufts of Brillo-like hair stuck out from under each arm. A five-day stubble covered his face.

  Devlin called out that he wanted to ask him a question. The man cracked the inner door open about an inch.

  “Evening,” Devlin said through the storm door. “Sorry to bother you—”

  “Beat it, bud,” the man said.

  “Now, that’s not very neighborly,” Devlin said. “I just want to ask—”

  “What’s the matter with you—you can’t hear?” the man asked. “I said beat it or there’ll be trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Devlin questioned.

  The man made a move to close the door. Devlin lost his patience. A quick, karate-style chop shattered the upper glass panel of the storm door. A swift kick with his boot took out the lower pane and kicked the inner door open.

  In a blink of an eye, Devlin was through the aluminum door and had the man by the neck. The man’s eyes started to bulge.

  “I’ve got a question,” Devlin repeated. “Here it is. I’m looking for Christopher Everson. You know him?” He released his hold on the man’s throat. The man coughed and sputtered.

  “Don’t keep me waiting,” Devlin warned.

  “My name is Jack,” the man said hoarsely. “Jack Everson.”

  “That I knew,” Devlin said, regaining his composure. “What about Christopher Everson? Do you know him? Ever hear of him? He might be a doctor.”

  “Never heard of him,” the man said.

  Disgusted with his luck, Devlin went back out to his car. He crossed off Jack Everson and looked at the next name on his list. It was K. C. Everson in Brookline. He reached forward and started the car. From his phone call earlier he knew that the K stood for Kelly. He wondered what the C stood for.

  He made a U-turn to get back to Washington Street. That ran into Chestnut Hill Avenue and then on into Brookline. He thought he could be at this K. C. Everson’s in five minutes, ten tops, if there was traffic in Cleveland Circle.

  “Ms. Arnsdorf will see you now,” the secretary said. The secretary was male, about two or three years younger than Trent, or so Trent guessed. He wasn’t bad-looking, either. He looked as if he pumped iron. Trent wondered how come the director of nursing had a male secretary. He thought it must have been a deliberate statement, some kind of a power trip on the part of the woman. Trent did not like Polly Arnsdorf.

  Trent got up from the chair he’d been sitting in and stretched lazily. He wasn’t going to rush into the woman’s office after she’d kept him waiting for half an hour. He tossed the week-old Time magazine onto the side table. He glanced at the secretary and caught him staring.

  “Something wrong?” Trent asked.

  “If you want to talk to Ms. Arnsdorf I’d suggest you go right into her office,” the secretary said. “She has a busy schedule.”

  Screw you, Trent thought. He wondered why everyone connected with administration thought their time was worth more than anybody else’s. He would have liked to have said something cutting to the secretary, but he held his tongue. Instead he reached down, touched his toes, and stretched out his hamstrings. “Get kinda stiff sitting around,” he said. He straightened up and cracked his fingers. Finally he walked into Ms. Arnsdorf’s office.

  Trent had to smile when he saw her. All nursing supervisors looked the same—like battleaxes. They never could decide what they wanted to be: nurses or administrators. He hated them all. Since he was only staying at each hospital for eight months or so, he’d gotten to see more of them than he cared to in the last few years. But today’s meeting was of an order he always enjoyed. He loved to cause the directors trouble. With the severe nursing shortage, he knew how to do it.

  “Mr. Harding,” Ms. Arnsdorf said. “What can I do for you? Sorry to keep you waiting, but with the problem we had in the OR today, I’m sure you can understand.”

  Trent smiled to himself. He could understand about the problem they had in OR. If only she knew how much he could understand.

  “I’d like to give notice that I’m leaving St. Joseph’s Hospital,” Trent said. “Effective immediately.”

  Ms. Arnsdorf sat ramrod straight in her chair. Trent knew he’d gotten her attention. He loved it.

  “I’m sorry to hear this,” Ms. Arnsdorf said. “Is there some problem that we could discuss?”

  “I don’t feel I’m being used to my full potential,” Trent said. “As you know, I was trained in the Navy and given significantly more autonomy there.”

  “Perhaps we could move you to a different department,” Ms. Arnsdorf suggested.

  “I’m afraid that’s not the answer,” Trent said. “You see, I like the OR. What I’ve begun to think is that I would be better off in a more academic environment, like Boston City Hospital. I’ve decided to apply there.”

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Ms. Arnsdorf said.

  “I’m afraid not. There’s another problem, too. I’ve never gotten along well with the OR supervisor, Mrs. Raleigh. Just between you and me, she doesn’t know how to run a tight ship, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do,” Ms. Arnsdorf said.

  Trent then gave her a prepared list of what he saw as problems in the organization and function of the OR. He’d always despised Mrs. Raleigh and hoped this chat with the director of nursing would give her some serious grief.

  Trent came out of Ms. Arnsdorf’s office feeling great. He thought about stopping and having a chat with her secretary to find out where the guy worked out, but there was someone else in the waiting room hoping to see the director. Trent recognized her. She was the day supervisor in the ICU.

  Less than half an hour after his meeting with Ms. Arnsdorf, Trent walked out of the hospital with all his toiletries from his locker stuffed in a pillow case. He had rarely felt so good. Everything had worked out better than he could have hoped. As he walked toward the Orange Line of the MBTA, he wondered if he should go directly to Boston City to apply for a job. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was too late in the day. Tomorrow would be fine. Then he started to wonder where he would go after Boston City. He thought about San Francisco. He’d heard San Francisco was a place a guy could have fun.

  When the doorbell rang the first time, Jeffrey’s mind was able to neatly incorporate it into the dream he was having. He was back in college and facing a final exam in a course that he’d forgotten he’d taken and had never gone to the class. It was a terrifying dream for Jeffrey, and perspiration had formed along his hairline. He’d always been conscientious about his studying, ever fearful of failure. In his dream the doorbell had become the schoolbell.


  Jeffrey had fallen fast asleep with the heavy toxicology book balanced on his chest. When the doorbell rang a second time, his eyes blinked open and the book fell to the floor with a crash. Momentarily confused as to where he was, he sat bolt upright and looked around. Only then did he get his bearings.

  At first he expected Kelly to get the door. But then he remembered that she’d left to go to St. Joe’s. He got to his feet, but too quickly. A little sleep on top of his general exhaustion made him suddenly dizzy, and he had to put a hand on the arm of the couch to steady himself. It took him a full minute to orient himself before he could pad his way on stocking feet through the kitchen and dining room to the front hall.

  Grasping the doorknob, Jeffrey was about to open the door when he noticed the peephole. Leaning forward, he took a glance. Still groggy, he wasn’t thinking quite straight yet. When he found himself staring straight at Devlin’s bulbous nose and red, watery eyes, his heart leaped to his throat.

  Jeffrey swallowed hard and warily took a second look. It was Devlin all right. Nobody else could be that ugly.

  The door chimes rang again. Jeffrey ducked from the peephole and took a step back. Fear gripped him tightly around the throat. Where could he go? What could he do? How did Devlin ever manage to track him down? He was terrified of being caught or shot, especially now that he and Kelly had made progress. If they failed to discover the truth now, who was to say when the fiend responsible for so much death and anguish would be caught, much less stopped?

  To Jeffrey’s horror, the doorknob began to turn. He was fairly confident the dead bolt was thrown, but from experience he knew that if Devlin aimed to get somewhere, you could bet he’d get there. Jeffrey watched as the knob began to turn the other way. He took another step back and brushed against the tea service on the foyer table.