Isolation Ward

by Joshua Spanogle

  “We have the word out, but still nothing. If it showed up, I think we’d see it. Symptomatologically, it’s pretty shocking.”

  “We don’t know that it always manifests that way. It could just be a flu in some people.” I paused. “Douglas Buchanan may be an asymptomatic carrier.”

  “Or he might not have the disease.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  At that moment, my phone vibrated. It was Tim Lancaster. He and Sonjit Mehta had just arrived at BWI and would be at the Health Department within the hour.

  Verlach was tapping the pen against his thin mustache now. “Let me call Jefferson, try to straighten that up.”

  He paged through a directory, looking for Jefferson’s number, I assumed, when his pager went off. He glanced at the little device and swore quietly. While he dialed, I sat there, feeling sorry for myself, sorry that Tim Lancaster was now in Baltimore. Though he didn’t know it, Herr Lancaster was about to tear into me like a lion into a newly killed gazelle. Or something like that.

  Having no idea what to do before the ax fell, I watched Verlach as his face went from mildly displeased to incredibly displeased.

  “It’s out,” he said, hanging up the phone. “Maryland just got cases four and five. They’re en route to St. Raphe’s right now.”

  He bolted from the office. I followed.

  CHAPTER 21

  We moved fast.

  The two cases were named Bryan Tinings and Maggie Phelps. Both were residents at two of Jefferson’s other houses—Bryan at a place called Baltimore Gardens, Maggie at Baltimore Lawn. It was relatively quiet outside St. Raphe’s; evidently the press hadn’t yet caught wind of the two patients being moved from Maryland.

  On a bench outside the hospital, smoking quietly, sat a woman in a nurse’s uniform. Rarely have I wanted to bum a smoke so badly. It didn’t hurt that she was attractive.

  Verlach intercepted a resident at the hospital entrance and began to question him. I heard Verlach ask who had accompanied the two new patients.

  The resident pointed to the smoking woman. “That’s Tabitha Kinard,” he said. “She brought them in.”

  I looked back at her calmly exhaling a cloud.

  “We’ll need to talk to her,” Verlach said.

  “I told her to stay.”

  “Good job,” Verlach said.

  “Thank you, sir,” the resident said, beaming. God, I thought, how brutal medical training is that such a weak compliment can go so far.

  Verlach and I put on masks and followed the resident inside.

  Maggie and Bryan, both midthirties, were pretty much following the script for this thing. Maggie was further along: she had pain in her chest and abdomen, slight hemorrhaging in her mouth. Bryan was just beginning. With his aches and low fever, he might have just had the flu. However, as he told it, Nurse Kinard insisted he come into the hospital. Way to go, Nurse Kinard.

  The two patients lived in separate residences, one all male, the other all female. The residences were in adjacent row homes. Neither of them worked at the Miller nursing homes: Bryan was a janitor at a movie theater downtown; Maggie cleaned rooms at a motel. We took down the names of their employers.

  Also, cases four and five were an item. We plunged through the sex questions: with whom, how often, with or without protection. Bryan denied involvement with any woman other than Maggie, and I believed him. Maggie also denied any “sexing,” as she called it, with anyone other than Bryan. But her eyes shifted on the denial.

  “Maggie,” I said. “You have to tell us if you were, uh, ‘sexing’ with anyone besides Bryan.”

  “No. I love Bryan.”

  “If you love Bryan, then you have to tell us. He’s sick, and we might be able to help him if you tell us the truth.”

  “I love Bryan.”

  She and I went on like that for another ten minutes, with Verlach standing next to me, getting increasingly agitated. Finally, he broke in. “Maggie, do you want to kill people?”

  That took her by surprise. It took me by surprise, and I was wondering if the strain had finally gotten to him.

  “No,” she said.

  “Do you want to kill Bryan?”

  “No. I love—”

  “Well, that’s exactly what you’re going to do if you don’t tell us the truth. If you don’t tell us who you were sexing with, you’ll kill Bryan.”

  “I love—”

  “We know you love him. But you’re going to kill him if you don’t talk to me.”

  “No—” she whispered.

  “Who else were you sexing with?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Who else were you sexing with?” She didn’t respond. “Who else were you sexing with?” he asked with a sharper tone.

  Maggie began to weep.

  “Herb—” I said. This new Herb Verlach was making me a little uncomfortable.

  “Who else were you sexing with? Do you want to kill Bryan? Who else were you sexing with?” His gloved fingers gripped her arm.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. He was—”

  Verlach pressed on. “What was his name?”

  Maggie shook her head, sobbing.

  “Was he a white man or a black man?” Not wanting to neglect anyone, I added, “Was he a brown man?”

  “A white man,” Maggie, who was black, said.

  “Was it Bryan?” Bryan was white, and I wanted to make sure she wasn’t confused.

  “No. He was big. A big white man.”

  “When were you sexing with this man?” Verlach asked.

  “I don’t know,” she whined.

  “Maggie, where did you sex . . . were sexing . . .” Verlach was getting frustrated. “Where did you have sex with this man?”

  “Mr. Jefferson’s birthday party.” She looked at us, afraid. “I don’t kill anyone. I don’t want to kill Bryan. Please.”

  “You’re not going to kill Bryan,” I assured her. “You’re doing great, Maggie.”

  Verlach hammered her, trying to pry loose a name that might never have been there. Because he was my ad hoc boss, because I had fucked up royally so far, and because he seemed to be getting results, I said nothing as she wept and protested her innocence. But I couldn’t watch this anymore. “I’m going to talk to the nurse,” I said, and walked out of the room.

  I found the resident who’d ushered us into the hospital and asked him where Nurse Kinard was. He thought she was in the waiting area for M-2.

  Tabitha Kinard, RN, was, upon close inspection, even better-looking than she had been from afar, with long, braided hair and cheekbones that would cut glass. She paged through an old copy of Newsweek. I introduced myself, extended my hand. She shook it.

  Desperate to get a nicotine fix as well as to question the nurse, I asked, “May I bum a cigarette?”

  “There are reporters down there now.”

  “We’re not going down there.”

  Two minutes later, we stood on the roof of the hospital, looking over the blighted neighborhoods of South Baltimore, both of us puffing away. Normally, I would have made a stupid comment about the cigarettes, about how they’ll kill you, but it didn’t seem appropriate.

  “I’m going to lose my job,” Kinard said matter-of-factly.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Because I am. Because it’s important to answer the questions you’re going to ask me.” She took a drag on the cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke. “But it’s okay. Easy to get a job if you’re a nurse. Ask away, Doc.”

  So I did. She gave me the story of caring for Maggie, then hearing the news about the outbreak in a short blurb on the radio. She was worried, but didn’t act until Bryan—whom she knew to be involved with Maggie—had a fever the night before. When nothing improved by morning, she brought them in.

  “I thought it was flu,” she said.

  “It might be,” I said unconvincingly. “Let’s hope. When did you first determine Maggie was ill?”

  “Thr
ee days ago.”

  “And her condition steadily worsened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you wait to bring her in? You knew she was sick with more than the flu.”

  “Debbie Fillmore died.”

  “Then why did you wait?”

  She held my gaze for a long moment. Her eyes were an incredible honey gold. “I waited because we weren’t to tell anyone if there were signs of illness. No doctors, no hospitals. Maggie was isolated in her room yesterday. We were supposed to take care of her at Baltimore Lawn.”

  This was odd. “Why?”

  “Orders from Dr. Jefferson. God—” She leaned against the concrete cornice. “I really am going to need a job now. What are the benefits like at the Health Department?”

  “I’m with CDC.”

  “Oh. Well, I have some family in Atlanta.” She smiled. “I don’t know why we were to do it. All I know is that a couple of days ago, Dr. Jefferson called the three of us—the three nurses who take care of the residents—and told us we were to take care of all medical problems in-house. He never gave us any reasons. But then, with Dr. Jefferson, you never really ask for reasons. You met him.”

  “Yes.”

  “He said to watch out for you and the black doctor and anyone else who was asking questions. He said he’d provide all the necessary equipment to care for the residents, and that we shouldn’t worry.”

  “Did he? Provide the equipment, I mean.”

  “It’s supposed to arrive today.” She looked at her watch. “I’m supposed to be meeting them now.” She smiled. “Oh, Randall is going to be pissed off.” I noticed a little tremor in her hand. She saw me notice, and placed her hands on the concrete, looked out over the city.

  “Is anyone else you know sick?”

  “Not that I know of. They’d be here if that was the case.”

  I took a long drag on my cigarette. “Ms. Kinard, I’m going to ask you not to talk to the press about this. We don’t know what’s causing this outbreak.”

  “The press seems to know that already.”

  “Right. But we do have some theories. Again, not for the press. Especially in light of Maggie and Bryan, we’re worried that the source of the pathogen—the reservoir—may be in one of Dr. Jefferson’s homes—”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  I, however, was surprised by her answer, by the fact that she already knew or suspected something. “Do you know what’s causing the disease?”

  “No, no, Doctor. I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . . well, you saw Baltimore Haven, didn’t you?”

  I nodded. After a moment, I asked, “If you’ll forgive me for prying, why do you work there?”

  She laughed. “The short story is that I have two kids, and Dr. Jefferson pays better than anyone else in town. The long story is, well, long. And probably not important for you to hear.”

  “I should be the judge of that.”

  “I’m telling you it’s not important.”

  Touchy, touchy. “Okay, well, we’re also worried that the disease may be transmitted sexually. We don’t know that for sure, of course, but—”

  “If it is, Dr. McCormick, you have something to worry about. There is a lot of sex going on in the homes. Many of our residents have a drive that’s through the roof. A rape a week, at least. More, much more, consensual sex.”

  “Anyone try to control it?”

  “Not really. Dr. Jefferson thinks it’s therapeutic.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone get pregnant?”

  “Dr. Jefferson puts a lot of trust in Depo shots.” Depo-Provera is the one-shot-three-months-no-pregnancy contraception.

  My stomach churned as I pictured St. Raphe’s filling up with more and more cases of the “flu.”

  I stubbed out the end of my cigarette and put the butt into my pocket. “Were you at Dr. Jefferson’s birthday party?”

  “Goes with the job. Yes, I was there. Dr. Jefferson wasn’t.”

  “Maggie Phelps implied she had sexual relations with a man at the party.”

  “Maggie Phelps is in love with Bryan Tinings, the other—”

  “Even so, she said she had something to do with another man at the party. A white man. Tall.”

  “Dr. McCormick, there are a lot of tall white men in the homes we oversee.”

  Kinard extinguished her cigarette and dropped it on the roof. I took out a card and handed it to her. “If you remember anything, please call me. In the meantime, we’re going to get hold of the rosters for Dr. Jefferson’s homes. I’d like to see you later today. Maybe we can piece together some of the relationships between these folks.”

  I bent down and picked up her cigarette butt and dropped it into my pocket. Tabitha smiled at me. “You some kind of goody-goody, Dr. McCormick?”

  “Probably not,” I said, and then walked toward the door. Kinard didn’t move.

  “Wait a second, Doctor. . . . There is a tall white man in the homes who seems to be quite active sexually. Well, to be perfectly honest, he’s a sexual predator. We deal with a lot of his . . . conquests. I didn’t see him with Maggie, but it’s possible. He’s over at Baltimore Haven. His name is Douglas Buchanan.”

  Sexual predator, possibly sexually transmitted disease. Douglas Buchanan, already in the middle of three cases.

  “Thanks, Ms. Kinard.” I reached for the door handle. “Oh, one more question. Why is Douglas Buchanan’s room nicer than anyone else’s? He’s the only one I saw in a single occupancy.”

  “I don’t work at Baltimore Haven.”

  “Why might his room be nicer than anyone else’s? Any suspicions?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why isn’t he disciplined for his, well, for his proclivities?”

  “Might be the same reason I get—did get, sorry—special treatment.”

  “Which is?”

  “Dr. Jefferson liked me. Maybe he liked Douglas, too.”

  “Wait, you mean he—?”

  “No, no.” She laughed. “Dr. Jefferson and I had that kind of relationship. But with Douglas Buchanan, well, there is some other reason he gets good treatment. No idea what it is.”

  Just before I closed the door, I heard Nurse Kinard say, “But all good things come to an end, don’t they?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Faster.

  The longer a case goes unsolved, the less likely it is to be solved. As with a murder, the more time goes by, the more people forget where they were and what they did. The more they have a chance to rethink their stories and cover their asses.

  Maggie Phelps’s and Tabitha Kinard’s fingering of Douglas Buchanan clinched it for us. It also seemed to clinch it for the judge, because thirty minutes after I was on the roof of St. Raphe’s, chatting it up with Nurse Kinard, we had a court order to enter Baltimore Haven.

  Verlach, for his part, smelled blood or victory or whatever it is ex–Army docs smell. This was fine, except that I was riding in the car with the man, and he was doing sixty through streets designed for speeds half that. I snapped on my seat belt.

  My pager vibrated and I looked at the little LED number that came up, not easy to do when vaulting through potholes. I recognized the digits, the same ones that had shown up on my cell phone a half hour before and on my pager three times in the last half hour. Tim Lancaster, it seemed, really wanted to talk to me. The feeling was not mutual, and I put the pager back on my belt.

  We screeched to a halt outside Douglas Buchanan’s home. Baltimore PD was supposed to be there as an escort, and I’d imagined this as a major action, with the boys in blue—guns drawn, shouting threats—running interference for us. But the BPD wasn’t there yet. It looked like the storming of the beach would involve just Verlach and me.

  Actually, not quite.

  “What the hell?” Verlach said.

  A large man was walking toward us. A thinner man in a suit was at his heels.

  “That’s Dr. McCormick,” the large man said, pointing to me as I stepped from
the car. He seemed to be holding a grudge from our little encounter with the rat the day before.

  The thin man approached us. “I’m Drew Mizursky, one of Dr. Jefferson’s attorneys.”

  They knew me, so I didn’t make an introduction, though Mizursky seemed to be waiting for one. Finally, the lawyer said, “I want to inform you both that we are currently in the process of obtaining an injunction against any further harassment of Dr. Jefferson or the residents in his facilities.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Dr. McCormick, you should know that we have filed the necessary papers for a protection from harassment order against you in particular for your assaults on Dr. Jefferson and Mr. Dunnigan here. Any trespass into the property will be seen by the court as further evidence—”

  “Get out of the way,” Verlach said, and walked up the steps.

  “Dr. McCormick, you should also know that we have filed assault charges against you for the attack yesterday on Mr. Dunnigan. The police will be—”

  “The attack?”

  “Yes. You attacked Mr. Dunnigan here with a rodent—”

  “Come on,” I said.

  “Tell him to fuck off, Nate.” Verlach was buzzing away at the call box outside the door.

  “Fuck off. It didn’t break the skin,” I said.

  “Untrue,” the lawyer said. On cue, Dunnigan held up a bandaged finger.

  “Did you do that yourself? Or did the rat next to you give the bite?” I pointed at Mizursky.

  “I resent your insinuations,” Dunnigan said, but he couldn’t help smiling.

  Verlach stopped buzzing the call box and pulled the court order out of his pocket. “Why don’t you look this over?”

  The lawyer stepped quickly to Verlach, grabbed the paper, speed- read it, and handed it back. “That’ll be invalid in an hour.”

  “An hour’s all we need.”

  I climbed the stoop and began knocking at the door. No one answered. “This is unbelievable.” I turned. “Let us in.”

  Dunnigan smiled. The lawyer did not. “We don’t have the key,” Dunnigan said.

  “Get one,” I told him.

  “Hmmm,” Dunnigan said, “I think we lost it.” Neither man moved.