by Lyle Howard
There was silence on the line as Bock could tell Williams was considering his options.
“I think I can go on the news tonight and say that we apprehended Gabe a few miles away from the hospital, and there was a shootout. I think I know the ideal place…”
“I’m sure you do,” Bock smirked.
“Now, all I need is a charred body from the morgue, and a burned up wreck from the impound yard, which shouldn’t be much of a problem after last night’s explosion. I think I can make all the pieces fit. I’ll call in a few markers with the Medical Examiner’s office and with a guy I know at the impound yard.”
“Then get a move on,” Bock instructed him. “I’m turning on the local news in a few minutes, and I expect to see your ugly mug plastered all over that television screen.”
“Make sure to wave to me,” Williams began to laugh.
“This is not a joking matter,” Bock said, sternly.
“Of course it isn’t. I was just wondering something else,” Williams mused, before he hung up the phone. “I was just wondering how many times we’re gonna have to kill Gabe Mitchell before he finally stays dead.”
45
Bennett Chase and Nathan Waxman stared at the television set, their mouths agape in dumbstruck disbelief. A half-filled bottle of diet soda fell out of Chase’s numbed hand and spilt its contents onto the carpet at their feet, but neither man paid any notice to the worsening stain. They both sat mesmerized by the late breaking bulletin that had just interrupted the 10 o’clock newscast.
“This just in,” the anchorwoman dramatically read off her teleprompter, “a shooting has been reported at Jackson Medical Center. Details are sketchy at this time, but Ken Garcia, who’s over the scene in News Chopper Eight, might have some more information for us. Ken, are you there?”
A jowly male face filled the television screen. “This is Ken Garcia in News Chopper Eight, hovering over an abandoned lot a little over two miles away from Jackson Medical Center. The police have cordoned off this area to traffic, so anyone heading in this direction should seek alternate routes. Normally, this desolate neighborhood is a reputed refuge for drug addicts and prostitutes, but tonight, as you can see,” he said, as the camera beneath the helicopter panned down through a smoky haze to a plume of orange fire that was being contained by a battalion of firefighters, “it’s been turned into a funeral pyre for the man police suspect killed a doctor earlier this evening in his office at Jackson Medical Center. We weren’t notified until a few minutes ago about the shootout that occurred here, and, when we arrived on the scene, the car you see below was already engulfed in flames. I’ve just been told that Captain Leon Williams of the City of Miami Police Department is holding an impromptu press conference back at the medical center, and he might have some more details. So, from News Chopper Eight, high above the tragic aftermath of a deadly police pursuit, this is Ken Garcia for the News at 10. Now, to the hospital live…”
“Was that your car?” Waxman was almost afraid to ask.
“How the hell should I know?” Chase snapped. “I couldn’t tell. The damned thing was burning like a charcoal briquette.”
“I’ve got a real bad feeling about this,” Waxman said, as he noticed the soda spill for the first time and picked up the glass. “What a mess.”
Chase had to press his hands between his thighs to stop them from shaking. “Screw the carpet,” he seethed, “be quiet, so I can hear what they’re saying.”
Nathan Waxman wasn’t used to being talked down to, but his pride was not at issue here and he did as he was told.
They watched and listened intently as Captain Leon Williams, surrounded by a swarm of reporters, fielded questions. Williams held up his hands for the crowd to back off, and they responded, as Waxman knew all too well, by closing ranks and besieging him with 50 questions at once.
“Please!” he pleaded angrily. “I’ll try to answer all of your questions in turn, but you’ve got to give me some breathing room!”
Three uniformed patrolmen stepped in at their captain’s request and corralled the media. Williams unruffled his overcoat, straightened his tie, and smoothed his mustache. Waxman knew a stalling tactic when he saw it.
“I’ve got a brief statement to make,” he announced, trying to shift his face from camera to camera, “and then I’ll answer some of your questions.”
At approximately nine o’clock tonight, Dr. Kenneth Sanborn, a neurologist and surgeon on the staff here at Jackson Medical Center, was murdered while doing paperwork in his office. The suspect in this homicide was a former police detective named Gabe Mitchell, whom, as some of you may know, was under my command until just a few days ago.”
“Well, I guess that answers that question,” Waxman said, letting his body go limp on the couch.
“It can’t be,” the old man gritted his teeth. “I don’t believe it.”
“We received the 911 call within minutes of the actual murder,” Williams continued on the screen. “We responded to the call immediately and pursued the fleeing suspect to an abandoned field a few miles northeast of here. Unfortunately, we found Detective Gabe armed and in a disturbed emotional state of mind. Shots were exchanged between the detective and two of my best officers, and the gas tank of Detective Gabe’s vehicle was hit in the crossfire. Consequently, the vehicle exploded with Detective Gabe still inside. Firefighters are working as we speak to put out the blaze. Now, I’ll take as many questions as I can…”
Chase stood up from the couch and began to pace chaotically. “I don’t understand this. He only went to get some more medicine. How could this have happened?”
Waxman had his finger on the power button of the remote control and was about to shut off the television, but then thought better of it. “We’ll probably never know, Bennett. I’m really sorry about this. In the brief time I knew him, Gabe seemed like a very decent fellow.”
The old man clasped his hands over his ears, as though blocking out the sound would also drown out the sorrow.
“Captain Williams,” one of the reporters yelled, “this was obviously not a random act of violence. Was there a relationship between Dr. Sanborn and Detective Gabe?”
Williams nodded. “Yes. Detective Gabe was a patient of Doctor Sanborn’s. Over the past few weeks, Detective Gabe had not been feeling well on the job, displaying erratic behavior, and showing signs of mental stress and physical illness. A few days ago, he was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and given a terminal prognosis.”
“This is the same detective whose partner was killed last week?”
“Yes, but we believe her untimely death was only a contributing factor,” he answered, pointing to another reporter in the back of the crowd.
“Can you give us any details about tonight’s murder, Captain?”
“I can only tell you at this time that the doctor was stabbed to death.”
“And Detective Gabe killed him because of his diagnosis? Doesn’t that seem a bit drastic?”
Williams held up his hands. “We’re only speculating as to the motive right now. But you have to realize that Detective Gabe had lost his wife and daughter in a car accident less than a year ago, and then his partner to a serial killer last week. Add the loss of his son to his in-laws in a messy custody battle, and then stir in his tragic diagnosis and prognosis, and you end up with quite a volatile mixture for murder.”
“That’s a load of crap,” Chase protested, his eyes welling up with tears. “That’s not Gabe Mitchell they’re talking about.”
Waxman pointed the remote control at the television set, lowering the volume. “You only knew him for a few short weeks, Bennett. Who’s to say he didn’t finally crack?”
Chase spun to face the ex-mayor who was staring at him unsympathetically. The old man’s face was red and knotted as if some internal blaze was about to flame out through his eye sockets. “Cracked? How can you even consider those lies they’re telling about him? Don’t you have a shred of human decency in your body?
Gabe Mitchell saved you from an assassination plot!”
Waxman knew there would be no consoling the old man, so he remained silent. Only the soft babble of the newscast droned on in the background. Waxman watched the old man wander aimlessly around the room, knowing firsthand how grief could affect people in different ways. In the case of his own wife’s death, he had lost 30 pounds as his stomach literally shut down from the lament. On the other hand, his daughter handled the despair of her mother’s passing much differently, even to the point of her breaking out in epidermal skin rashes. To each their own.
A pounding on the front door startled both men back to reality. They looked at each other apprehensively.
“What do you think?” Chase asked fearfully.
“They could have traced the license plates or vehicle identification number back to you,” Waxman responded, rising slowly to his feet. “Damn, they work fast!”
The old man wrung his hands together. “What should I tell them?”
Waxman walked over and put his hand on Chase’s shoulder. “Let me talk to them.”
Chase’s eyes widened. “Are you insane? You can’t let them see you. You’re supposed to be dead!”
Waxman squeezed the old man’s shoulder reassuringly. “Well, I don’t think that our little secret matters too much anymore, now does it?”
Chase pushed Waxman back toward the bedroom hallway. “Please, just let me handle this. Let me see who it is first. We might be getting all worked up over nothing.”
Waxman stared curiously at the front door as the pounding renewed. “It’s your house, so I’ll respect your wishes, but, if there’s any trouble, I’m coming back out.”
“Fine,” Chase agreed, waving his disheartened guest back into the darkness of the unlit hallway. “Just don’t be a hero. The longevity of heroes isn’t very long lately.”
* * * * * *
Waiting until Waxman was out of sight, Chase moved timidly toward answering the door. “Who is it?” he called out from a few feet away, now regretting that he never bothered to install a security peephole.
“What do you mean?” came the response from outside. “Let me in, Bennett, I’m freezing my ass off out here!”
“Who is it?”
“For God’s sake, Bennett,” answered the voice. “What is this, some kind of joke? Let me in!”
There was a large, draped picture window that opened onto a magnificent view of his finely manicured front lawn, but it was still impossible to see anyone standing on the other side of the door through it. Chase pulled back the edge of his curtains and peered into the darkness of his front yard, but there was nothing to be seen out there. No car. Nothing. “Identify yourself,” Chase yelled.
“Identify myself? What the hell is this, Alcatraz, all of a sudden? It’s Gabe, for crying out loud. Let me in!”
46
Nathan Waxman heard the exchange from down the hallway and stepped back out into the light. “How is that possible? Let him in!”
Chase rushed for the door and yanked it open. It was true! Gabe Mitchell was standing there, quite alive in all of his shivering glory.
“Are you going to let me in?” Gabe grunted impatiently. “Or do I need some special password to get into this maximum security prison?”
Chase stepped forward and tied-up an overwhelmed Gabe Mitchell in a crushing bear hug. “God damn, son. They said you were dead, but I didn’t believe it for a single minute.”
“What are you talking about?” Gabe groaned, still locked in the old man’s savage grip.
Nathan Waxman remained far across the room, stunned that Gabe Mitchell was actually standing there in the flesh.
“On the news,” Chase started to explain. “They said…”
“Let go of him,” Waxman called out. “Can’t you see you’re crushing the life out of him?”
Chase relinquished his vise-like hold, allowing Gabe to inhale a huge gasp of air.
“Hurry, come inside,” the old man urged, closing and locking the door behind them. “Didn’t I tell you it was a load of hooey, Nate? My boy Gabe here’s got more lives than a freaking cat!”
Waxman was still skeptical. “What happened to you?”
Gabe stepped into the center of the living room. “I ran into a bit of trouble at the hospital,” Gabe answered.
“Do ya think?” Waxman said, sarcastically.
* * * * * *
Gabe threw the two file folders on Chase’s coffee table. They landed bloody side up. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
In unison, both men took a horrified step back.
“Oh jeez,” Chase moaned.
“Is that Sanborn’s blood?” Waxman asked, pointing at the folders.
Gabe looked at the ex-mayor like he had just pulled off some miraculous magic trick that defied logic. “How did you know about…?”
Waxman pointed at the newscast which was already recapping the story. Gabe moved slowly toward the television set as the highlights of the evening’s events were recounted by his former captain. He watched the fiery spectacle through unblinking eyes and listened to the fabricated story through disbelieving ears.
Gabe rested his hands on the back of the couch, his entire body sagging under the invisible weight of betrayal. But at least now the puzzle was complete. Now he understood why Williams was the only officer to visit him at the hospital … how Shayla Rand was waiting for him back at the motel after he tried to warn his trusted captain about the assassination plot … the impeccable security credentials he was given at the marina. It all fit—and it all made him sick to his stomach. He looked up to find both men staring at him again. “Okay,” he asked wearily. “Now, do you want to hear the truth?”
Gabe asked Bennett Chase if he would make him a pitcher of fresh tea, and all three men retired to the kitchen where they waited for the teapot to boil. Gabe sat across the kitchen table from both of them and began recapping his experiences of the past four hours in unabridged detail. When the whistle from the kettle interrupted Gabe’s narrative, he asked Chase for some ice cubes, lemon juice, and plenty of sugar. The old man obliged and watched in fascination as Gabe downed glass after glass of iced tea.
“So,” Chase said unsurely. “There is no brain tumor? You’re not dying?”
Gabe reached across the table and took the old man’s hand, embracing it gently. “I don’t think so, Bennett.”
“But those son-of-a-bitches made you think you were?”
“That was their plan.”
Chase didn’t know whether to sing for joy or spit for hatred. “What gives them the right to manipulate a person’s life like that? It’s … it’s…” He couldn’t find a word strong enough. “Despicable!”
* * * * * *
“You’ve been sitting there like a bump on a log during all of this, Mr. Mayor,” Gabe said, turning his attention to Waxman. “What are your thoughts?”
Waxman leaned back and tugged on his ear. The side of his face still felt like it was being probed with pins and needles. “I’m just sitting here listening to your story, Gabe. You’ll have to excuse me if I play the devil’s advocate, but the level of corruption you’re suggesting is staggering. Do you realize how fantastic this all sounds?”
Gabe calmly set down his glass of tea and slid his chair away from the table. Waxman watched as Gabe silently exited the kitchen. Seconds later, two manila folders came skidding across the kitchen table. The blood on the outside of one of them had turned to a sickening shade of brown.
Gabe stood in the doorway like a concrete monument. “Proof,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Bennett Chase slid around the table so he could peruse the contents of the two files over Waxman’s shoulder. Halfway through his reading, the old man looked up from the folder and winked proudly at Gabe.
“Digitoxin,” Waxman looked up, keeping his finger pressed on the word. “This is the drug they supposedly poisoned you with?”
“I’m going to get my medical encyclopedia and see what i
t says about it,” Chase said.
Gabe had to step out of the doorway to let the rotund old man squeeze by.
“And what’s this all about?” Waxman asked, holding up the business card that had been attached to the inside of the second folder.
“That company’s name doesn’t sound familiar to you?” Gabe asked as he dumped three scoops of sugar into his beverage.
“No,” Waxman said, turning the card over in his hand and examining the other side. “Should it?”
Gabe shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Hey,” Bennett Chase called out as he waddled back into the room. “I found it!”
“What does it say?” Waxman asked.
“I always keep this thing handy,” the old man said as he skimmed his finger across the page. “With all the medicines I’m taking, I can’t always trust my doctors to remember how one drug interacts with another.”
Gabe took a long pull from his drink as Chase rifled through the pages of the thick book.
“Here it is,” Chase announced. “Digitoxin: Other names: Lantoxin, Crystodigin, and Purodigin. A drug commonly used for treating heart failure, angina and blood pressure abnormalities. Tablet or liquid, Digitoxin can be given orally, intramuscularly or intravenously.”
“What does it say about long-term usage?” Waxman asked, looking across the room at Gabe, who was leaning with his back against the sink.
The old man’s finger crossed onto the next page of the book. “Umm … let me see here … An overdose … I guess that’s what we’re talking about … causes nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, blurred vision, and cardiac disturbances, such as tachycardia, pulmonary contractions, arterial fibrillation, and atrioventricular blocks … whatever those things are.”
“And what about the antidote?” Gabe asked. “Were the interns right?”
“Hmm … Treatments,” Chase read on. “The stomach must be flushed with tannic acid,” he said, looking up and smiling at Gabe. “And the victim should remain lying down.” Now he frowned at him. Gabe returned the old man’s grimace with a guilty shrug.
