The Near Death Experience (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 10)

by John Ellsworth

  “What about the electroencephalogram?”

  “Right. The EEG will record a complete absence of brain activity where there’s brain death.”

  “So that’s all it takes?”

  “Yes. As you can see, it’s a combination of factors. In your case I’ve reviewed the EEG. Your Ms. Turkenov had zero brain activity, zero brain stem activity. The woman was medically and legally dead.”

  “And you’ll testify to this at Dr. Sewell’s trial?”

  “Sure I will. I testify all the time and rather enjoy it.”

  “Now that’s refreshing.”

  “What about you, Thaddeus? Do you like to go to trial?”

  “Absolutely. It’s the scariest thing I do and the most rewarding thing I do. After my family, of course.”

  “You have a family, then?”

  “Yes, four children. And one very sick wife.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Metastatic breast cancer. She doesn’t have much time left.”

  “Oh, well you have my condolences. It must be very hard.”

  Thaddeus looked down at the desk. “It is.”

  “Okay, well,” the doctor said with a flounce, “have I answered your questions today?”

  “You really have. I can’t thank you enough. And Dr. Sewell thanks you too.”

  “What about that? Are you going to be able to get him off?”

  “You know, it depends on the jury we end up with. That’s always a crap shoot, as they say.”

  “Is ‘crap shoot’ a legal term?”

  Thaddeus laughed and the dark moment of Katy’s impending death was dispelled.

  He found that he liked the young doctor. Admired her.

  And the blonde hair with the daisy barrette—that really sealed the deal.

  She was adorable. But he didn’t allow himself to think that. Not more than a thought he immediately drove from his mind. His thoughts turned to Katy and his adoration of her. He was loyal, he belonged to her and he always would.

  He doubted there would ever be another for him. In fact, he was sure of it.

  Walking down the street to his car, he noticed the light playing off the leaves of the trees in a glimmer and dance that he had noticed before, whenever he was happy. Which meant, because he hadn’t noticed its absence for months now, he hadn’t been really happy. But who would be? How could he be?

  But for a moment, he was.

  Now what was that all about?

  44

  “How did it go today?” Katy asked Thaddeus. “It was man-overboard around here today.”

  “What happened?”

  “Diego changed my sheets.”

  “While you were in the bed?”

  “Of course, while I was in the bed.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “He had zero idea how it’s done. He tried to change them the normal way you do when there’s no one in the bed. I laughed so hard I peed on myself.”

  “Uh-oh. So tell me.”

  Katy swallowed down a laugh. “I’m lying there and he rolls me to my side and untucks that half of the sheet. So far so good. Then roll the other way, untuck again. But then goes down to the end and tries to drag the sheet out from under me, moving from head to toes. Disaster!”

  “Lord, help us.”

  “Right? He dragged the sheet with me on so I’m on my back, I get torqued and now I’m lying with my head off one side of the bed. So he comes around and straightens me out, apologizing the whole time, of course. Then he repeats and my head goes off the other side. This time my shoulders too, so I’m about to fall out of bed except I catch myself with my hand on the floor. And this bed is high off the floor. Just look.”

  “What the hell? Has he ever done this before?”

  “Evidently not. But it gets better. He finally gets the bottom sheet off and the top sheet off and now he wants to put a clean bottom sheet on—with me in the bed. Now the way this is done, if you’ve ever been in the hospital, is they roll you onto your side and roll the sheet into a roll and unroll it as they put you onto your other side. When it’s done, voila! You’ve got the sheet underneath and then you just tuck it in. But oh, no, not our Diego. He goes to the head of the bed and sits me up, holds me with his arm behind my back while he takes his other hand and tries to arrange the bottom sheet behind me. He satisfies himself that that’s all good, then lays down my top half. Now what to do? You can see the gears turning in his head. He’s got my top half on the new sheet and my bottom half on the mattress. This might have worked if he had rolled the sheet, lifted my bottom half and unrolled it waist to toes. But did he? Oh, no.”

  “Good grief. I’m firing this guy right now!”

  “No, silly, don’t you get it? This is the biggest laugh I’ve had since I got sick. Now he’s lifting me around the waist and reaching up under me trying to snag the sheet and pull it down. Except I’m lying on it and I don’t bend that way. Now he’s stumped. So he excuses himself and goes into the kitchen. I can hear him talking on his cell phone. Come to find out, he called Peak Home Health and they told him how to do it.”

  “So he starts over?”

  “No. He turns me crosswise on the bed—swear to God—and rolls me onto my side and pulls the sheet down. That’s how he finished the job. Thaddeus, changing sheets is the first thing they teach new CNA’s. But the comic relief was worth every penny we’re paying those people. I’ve never laughed so hard!”

  Thaddeus sat down in the chair beside her head.

  He said, “It’s funny, but it’s also disturbing. He’s not who he says he is. Is he?”

  “I don’t know. There're lots of other things too—little things. Maybe he’s not.”

  “I’m calling Peak. I’m finding out how well they know this guy.”

  “All I can say is, this must be his first job. That and someone wasn’t paying attention in school on sheet changing day. Good grief!”

  Thaddeus stood up and walked to the window.

  “I’m not convinced we should be laughing. I don’t like this, given someone shooting at us.”

  Katy’s voice grew worried. “You know what about that? I’ve wanted to ask you. I think I’d like a gun.”

  “What? What on earth for?”

  She pulled herself upright in the bed. “For safety. So I can defend myself. Or you or the kids.”

  Thaddeus turned away from the window and came to sit down beside her again.

  “We can do that. Where would you keep it?”

  “Under my pillow.”

  “Oh, you really are serious about this!”

  She didn’t smile. “Dead serious. Now that you mention it, what if this guy Diego isn’t who he says he is?”

  “I know. I’ll be checking that out.”

  “I mean any of those aides or nurses they send out could be someone we don’t want inside our home.”

  “Let me call Peak. Hold on, Biscuit.”

  Thaddeus put his cell phone to his ear.

  The Director of Nursing answered her own number.

  “Thaddeus Murfee calling. We want to ask about this Diego Luchesi you hired out for midnights. How well do you know this guy? I mean, do you have someone run backgrounds on these people?”

  “Why, is there a problem?”

  “Let’s just say we’re hyper-cautious. We had an incident out here.”

  She cleared her throat. “Basically, what we do is have them fill out an app. Then we check with the state Department of Nursing to verify licensure and status. That’s about it.”

  “Seriously? You don’t have anyone running background checks?”

  “Not really. We’ve never had a problem, Mr. Murfee.”

  “Okay, well that answers that question. Thanks for the info.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He hung up and shrugged. “Nada. No background check whatsoever.”

  “All the more reason to give me a gun.
They’re all going to be unvetted.”

  Thaddeus nodded. His lips were pursed and he was deep in thought. Then, “You’ve got your gun.”

  “It’s for the best, Thad.”

  “I hate to say it, but you’re right. I’m going to drop by Peak and get a printout on all the aides and nurses working here. I’ll have the pros run backgrounds.”

  “XFBI?”

  “Sure. We should be doing that anyway.”

  “Thank you.”

  45

  Christine had learned enough of the language during her stay in Sicily with BAT that she was able to communicate with the young waitress. Her name was Monni and she was nineteen and wanted to attend art school in Italy.

  In her primitive Sicilian dialect, Christine asked, “If I paid you ten thousand dollars American would you leave your job?”

  The young waitress looked confused. In her native tongue, she asked, “You paying me not to work?”

  “Yes, that’s it. If you quit your job tonight, I will give you this money.”

  Christine dug in her backpack and withdrew an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. She spread the flap then riffled the bills before the girl’s eyes. “See? Ten thousand USD.”

  “Give me. I do it, miss.”

  Christine had followed Monni after she came off her evening shift at Dista Fiencci’s. A half block away was a coffee shop and the girl had turned when passing the window and Christine beckoned. “Me?” the girl indicated by pointing to herself outside on the sidewalk. Christine nodded excitedly. “Yes, you!”

  The girl came inside and Christine had invited her to sit with her. The coffee shop waitress was waved off. This wouldn’t take long and Christine would leave a good tip.

  Now the waitress, Monni, sat with her hand outstretched.

  “You will walk back over before they close and you will tell them you quit, effectively immediately?”

  “Yes. Give it now, please.”

  “I’m trusting you. And I know where you live.”

  “It is not a problem. I will tell them now.”

  “Tell you what. You go tell them and then come back here. I will wait.”

  “No, money first.”

  Christine grinned. “Don’t blame you. All right,” she said, passing the envelope to the anxious young woman, “and where will you go?”

  “To Rome for school. I study art.”

  “Fantastic. So it’s a win-win for both of us.”

  “It is.”

  “All right. I’ll wait here and you go do it.”

  The girl stuffed the envelope inside her blouse and the deal was struck.

  Twenty minutes later she was back, passing by the same coffee shop window and she turned and gave Christine the universal thumbs up as she went by.

  Christine, wearing black jeans and a black turtleneck, and having pulled her hair back off her face, looked younger than her actual years. Her purse was woven fabric and cheap. Her makeup bordered on garnish as a young girl might have it to make an impression when she was unsure of herself. Her nails were a hip Jamberry Friday Flannel, sure to draw the eye of the more astute hiring manager and sure to peg her age as much younger than her thirty-some years.

  She put a ten-dollar bill on her tab and left the coffee shop. Without hesitation she made her way back up the street to Dista Fiencci’s. Her presentation was that her roommate Monni told her she was quitting her job and Christine would like to know if she could apply for the opening.

  The hiring manager looked her up and down.

  “You waitress before?”

  “I did. During high school in New York,” she said.

  “You are American. How good is your Sicilian?”

  “I’m talking to you all right, aren’t I? You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

  The hiring manager smiled. She said, “All right. Start tomorrow. Four p.m. But if it’s four-oh-one you are fired before you begin.”

  “Can I get a noon shift too?”

  “My, we are hungry for euros, no?”

  “I am. I need money for my rent.”

  “Come in at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. But it will be a long day for you. Black slacks and starched white shirt open at the throat. Comfortable shoes, kitten. Black ones.”

  “All right.”

  Christine extended her hand and the manager flashed on the Friday Flannel Jamberry nails. She shook her head, reconciled to the folly of some youth.

  “Good. Thank you for coming in, Christine.”

  “Thank you,” Christine gushed. She clapped her hands and dashed from the restaurant.

  * * *

  As was his habit—the only habit she had been able to establish for him—he arrived at Dista Fiencci’s just after 12:30 p.m. the next day. This time, 100 € saw to it that she would get to serve his table. Wearing all black except for the starched white shirt, Christine approached Mascari’s table. She knew his previous face; the new one still resembled it, but was more Asian in appearance around the eyes. Maybe that was his aim, she thought, a look that was as generic as possible, as the rest of his features were definitely European. She had to admit that, had she merely been passing him on the street, she would have missed him. The new and improved Lincoln Mascari was finely crafted, a testament to the finest steel blades in the most talented Swiss hands.

  He was speaking to a larger man, seated at his right, at their enclosed booth. When she approached, the larger man leaned away, hiding his head behind the demi-curtain that covered the top one-third of the booth. The curtain was damask rose and blood red with black stitchery. Christine brightly smiled and held her order tablet in both hands. She began punching keys on its face, inputting table and auto-timing the order, and she greeted them in her best accent.

  “You look absolutely lovely today,” said Mascari, leaning back against the booth and tapping his cigar against the gold-rimmed ashtray. He turned his head to the side so as not to blow smoke directly at her as he spoke.

  “Thank you,” she cooed, touching her hair. “I did it just for you,” she smiled and laughed the laugh of a college coed.

  He smiled broadly. “Well now. What are you recommending for us today?”

  She knew exactly what she was recommending for the man, recommending because it was a dish glazed with sugar around the edges.

  “I would strongly suggest the Cassatelle alla Trapanese.”

  “Enlighten me, please.”

  “These are soft crescents of dough filled with sweet sheep milk, ricotta, and chocolate chips. We sprinkle them with icing sugar and you eat them while they’re hot, when the chocolate melts into the creamy ricotta.”

  “Is it less than two thousand calories?”

  “I think so. I can ask to be sure.”

  The mobster exploded with laughter. “I am only joking! My doctor says I must limit my intake to two thousand calories. But that’s for a whole day. It’s a joke!”

  “It is!” she cried, feigning laughter as if he were the funniest man on earth. “So can I put in your order?”

  “Absolutely, my winsome little waitress,” he said. “And I would like your number, as well.”

  She batted her eyes and looked down. “I will bring that with your order. Just please don’t tell the manager!”

  “Of course not.”

  He reached, seized her hand, and pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

  “Oooomph!” he said emphatically. “Such soft crescents of dough indeed!”

  She took the other’s orders and backed away from the table, smiling and scraping as she went.

  The order was cooked and ready for delivery eleven minutes later. She had already brought their drinks and attended to their other nagging whimsies. Of course there had been more flirting and suggestive language and Christine had played right along. The man was half in the bag over her, she could see. He was excited, turned on, and kept asking when he would get her number. “When I bring the food,” she told him several times. “You’ll see.”r />
  Her tablet buzzed, indicating the order was up.

  She ducked into the kitchen—right-hand door going in—and found the waiting tray of food. From her short waist pocket, she extracted what appeared to be a packet of sugar and heavily dusted the crescent of dough nearest the edge of the plate. She would need to make sure that morsel was closest to him and would likely be the first eaten. But even if not, even just one bite at any point in the meal would do it. Her hand shook with excitement. She was so close.

  The chemist’s assistant had told her, “Cyanide interferes with the enzymes controlling the oxidative process. This means his red blood cells won’t absorb oxygen. Cyanide ingestion has been called ‘internal asphyxia.’ Swallowing a dose of cyanide as a salt will cause immediate unconsciousness, convulsions, and death within one to fifteen minutes.”

  With great pride in the chef’s mastery of all things Sicilian, she bore the brimming tray to Mascari’s table. Carefully she distributed the food per the orders. Last to be served was Mascari himself, whose food arrived with a flourish and a folded note that said, on the outside, Only open when you’ve cleaned your plate!

  He read the outside of the note and she cautioned him with a wagging finger. “Only when you’ve been good and eaten everything. Then you can open it. Promise?” she asked, her hand on the note as if to take it away.

  “Promise,” he said and made the Scout’s Salute.

  “All right, then, enjoy. And if you need anything, I’ll be right over there.”

  “Thank you again, Miss.”

  She ducked away and found her shift manager. “I’m up for break. Restroom. Back in five.”

  The manager nodded and paid her little attention. She had no patience for the wait staff and viewed them as the problem and not the solution around her firmament.

  Without missing a beat, Christine turned back to the hallway that led to the bathroom, strode right past it, and out the locked door at the far end.