by Ray Flynt
Brad’s phone sounded, and he was relieved to hear Sharon Porter’s voice, even if she sounded peeved.
“This better be good,” she began. “It’s snowed about eight inches since I left Bryn Mawr. They’re calling this the storm of the century. I just pulled into a parking garage across from the hospital. Where are you?” she asked.
Brad was surprised to hear that she had driven. “Take the elevator to the 7th floor, and I’ll meet you at the nurses’ station.”
“Okay, but I’m gonna try and find a coffee first. See you in a few.”
On the other side of the hall an elderly patient frowned at him as Brad pocketed his cell phone, even as she steadied herself using the handrail. He meandered back toward the elevators past closed doors where he heard muffled conversations or the sounds of television. The walls were clad in a pale yellow vinyl, illuminated by fluorescent light panels in the drop ceiling. As he reached the sun porch Brad noticed Alan Fenimore behind the nurses’ counter gripping the phone receiver, and occasionally mumbling “uh huh” into it. A few seconds later he slammed the receiver back in its cradle, muttered “damn it,” and leaned against the countertop, supporting his weight with both hands. Two nurses busied themselves behind the counter, with lowered eyelids, pretending they hadn’t seen anything. The doctor stood upright and handed a zippered plastic bag to Pedro. It looked like the sample Brad had gathered in Ms. McCullough’s room and Alan had marked the bag with his name and the patient’s. “Take this to Dr. Dubei’s office. Tell him to have the lab check the chemical composition of the substance on these gauze pads.”
“Okay, Doctor, I’ll take it down as soon as Keith gets back.”
“No,” Alan said firmly. “Take it down now. I need the results—stat.”
Pedro jumped up and headed for the elevator.
From a few feet away, a nurse summoned Dr. Fenimore.
“What!” Alan snapped, but then softened with, “What is it, Iola?”
Brad worried about Alan’s emotional equilibrium, but then he hadn’t ever seen Alan on his home turf. Perhaps he was always testy with the nursing staff—his way of showing his authority—but then he remembered Crystal’s apologetic remark after Alan’s outburst in Barbara McCullough’s room.
The nurse held her ground with Alan, waving a patient’s chart in his direction and saying, “It’s about Mr. Ferguson in 712. He said his doctor told him that he would prescribe a pain medication. But Dr. Ward never left any orders. I’ve tried to page him, but no response. Mr. Ferguson is getting irritable and keeps ringing for me.” The nurse’s name badge read Iola T. She was a black woman in her mid-40’s Brad guessed, with a dark chocolate-colored complexion and hair worn long and straight. Her outfit was similar to Crystal’s, only hers was pink.
Alan Fenimore reached for the chart. “Let me see.” Brad watched Alan pore over the various pages. “I’ll order 10 mg of Percocet,” he announced, then scribbled a notation on the chart, adding, “Repeat every six hours as needed.”
The nurses’ station stood at the intersection of the North and West wings. From that vantage point, Brad observed, the staff could see down either hallway, as well as traffic coming off the elevator or people gathered in the sunroom. Brad turned onto the floor’s West wing, which was quiet and empty except for a gurney parked about halfway down its length. As he wandered down the hall, while keeping a watchful eye for Sharon at the elevator bank, he made a mental note to find out the room numbers for all of the transplant patients who had died. Next to each room was a plaque with the room’s number and space for patient names and special instructions. Room 701 was the first room to the left after passing the nurses’ station. Across from it was room 702. A window at the end of the hall beckoned, which Brad noted was between rooms 717 and 718. If the West wing had a similar configuration, there were a total of thirty-six rooms on the floor. Brad pressed his nose against the glass and shielded his eyes against the glare from the fluorescent lights. Now nearly dark outside, Brad could see the snow still whirling seven floors above a city shrouded in fog.
“Men!” Sharon sputtered to no one in particular, as she emerged from the elevator with a large Seattle’s Best cup in one hand and her cell phone in the other. Her petite frame was draped in a plaid wool cape that looked like it came from an Irish import store, and her auburn hair sparkled from a dusting of snow that had melted into water droplets.
“I’m gonna resign from that group first thing next week.”
Her only reaction was a smile, and Brad asked, “What’s going on?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I got together with this guy two weeks ago—Jeff’s his name—and we’ve talked on the phone a couple of times since then. We discussed getting together tonight.” She tossed her hair. “No firm commitments, it wasn’t like a real date or anything, just talk. So I called to say,” she wiggled the cell phone in the air, “that I was tied up here, and now he thinks I’m trying to dump him.”
“He still wants to get together?” Brad said. “I wonder if he’s looked outside lately.” Maybe the guy raises huskies.
“Yeah, but that didn’t stop you from ordering me out in this weather,” she snapped in her typical feisty way.
Brad shrugged. “That’s different. Give me his number. I’ll call him and tell him how lucky he is to get dumped this early in your relationship.”
Alan approached, which saved Brad from a harsher reaction than a roll of Sharon’s eyes.
“Alan, I want you to meet my associate, Sharon Porter.”
Alan offered his hand. “Thanks for braving this storm to get here.” A grim expression crossed his face and he shook his head. “I think it’s time for me to get out of medicine.”
Brad put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Now Alan, what would Marie say if she could hear you talking like that?” Fenimore’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a puckered line. Brad added, “You’ve been through a lot lately. Things will look different in a couple of months.”
Alan folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sure they will,” he said ruefully. “Right now, I’d settle for getting through the next few hours.”
“What’s up?”
“The hospital administrator wants to see me. An informer,” Alan made quote marks with his fingers, “told her that we’ve had two suspicious deaths. She doesn’t know about the third one. She wants to see me right now. I told her I’d be up in five minutes, and that was ten minutes ago.”
“We’ll go with you,” Brad said.
Brad and Sharon, still carrying her coffee cup, rode to the fourteenth floor with Alan Fenimore. It was a quiet ride. The doctor stood just inside the elevator doors with his back to them. Alan put his face in his hands and inhaled deeply, and his shoulders slumped as he exhaled. Brad glanced at Sharon; it pained him to watch his friend in agony.
When the doors opened, Dr. Fenimore straightened and stepped off the elevator. In front of them loomed a glass wall with double-doors and beyond it the administrative office for Strickland Memorial Hospital.
“May I help you,” the young man behind the receptionist’s desk crisply asked after they had entered the wood-paneled suite. His black hair was freshly trimmed, parted on the left and lightly spiked on top. The blue sweater and tie made him look like an escapee from the Disney Store. Behind the receptionist a large-scale brass replica of the hospital’s logo hung in relief against the wood-paneled wall. Script letters S, M, and H overlaid the caduceus symbol that looked to Brad like two snakes getting it on around a winged staff.
Alan Fenimore spoke. “I’m Dr. Fenimore. Ms. Harris is expecting me.”
The receptionist typed the doctor’s name on the keyboard in front of him, and then turned to Brad and Sharon. “How can I help you?”
Dr. Fenimore snapped. “We’re all together. They’re with me.”
The receptionist was undeterred. “Could I have your names please?”
Sharon spoke first, followed by Brad. The receptionist dutifully typed the informati
on into his computer, and then pointed to his right. “There’s a closet around the corner Ms. Porter if you’d like to hang up your coat. I’ll let Ms. Harris know you’re here, doctor.” Brad remembered that he’d have to retrieve his coat from the autopsy suite.
Moments later a hidden door opened in the paneled wall. “Alan, come in. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve been on the phone dealing with our snow emergency.” Danita Williams-Harris was a statuesque woman, with a warm voice and unwavering eyes. Her short Afro glistened, and a smile revealed an upper row of slightly protruding teeth—stark white against burgundy lips and chestnut skin. Ms. Harris wore a three-quarter length brown suede skirt and ivory blouse. Earrings matched her dangling necklace of gold interlocking rings, and draped around her shoulders was a colorful kente scarf of African tribal design.
Brad and Sharon followed Alan into her corner office. Sheer curtains drawn shut reflected soft light back into the room, and shielded their view from the raging winter storm. Perimeter recessed lighting made the maple wood panel walls glow, too. On one side of the room sat a Danish modern desk in front of a coordinated credenza. Above it hung a large oil painting of a distinguished-looking couple—Brad guessed their name might be Strickland. He bet that his parents would have known them. On the opposite side of the room a man in a dark suit sat with his back to them in one of the cream-colored upholstered chairs situated around a glass coffee table. They had taken a few steps across the plush beige wool carpet before Ms. Williams-Harris formally acknowledged Brad and Sharon’s presence. “Alan, I didn’t realize you would be bringing others with you.”
Brad extended his hand. “I’m Brad Frame, Ms. Harris. We met two years ago at Alan and Marie’s Christmas party in Haverford, and this is my associate, Sharon Porter.”
“Nice to meet you Ms. Porter,” she said as she clung to Brad’s hand. She repeated his name as she gazed at him with her intense brown eyes. Her face brightened. “Of course, I remember you now.” She stepped back and stood with one arm across her abdomen and her other hand poised in mid-air. “That night we talked about Princeton, our alma mater.”
Brad smiled and nodded. “We were almost classmates.”
She pointed toward the seating area. “Let’s not discuss who graduated first. I’d like you to meet Larry Whitmore, the attorney who heads our Public Affairs department.”
The lawyer stood for a round of handshakes and introductions. He was short, bald, and wore a tie that had gone out of style while he was still in law school, but Brad noticed he had a wedding ring on the third finger of his left hand, so somebody loved him. Brad and Sharon took their seats, while Danita Williams-Harris sat opposite in a leather wing chair between Alan Fenimore and the no-taste-in-ties legal counsel.
“Let me get down to business, Doctor,” Danita Harris began. “Larry informs me that two patients died earlier today under what can only be described as suspicious circumstances. As the hospital’s administrator I have an obligation to protect our other patients and our good name. I wish that you had been the one to inform me of these developments.”
“I… ah…” Fenimore began, badly.
“And now that I have seen Mr. Frame here, I realize that you must have contacted him in his professional capacity. That is not the way we do things here at Strickland Memorial.” Her tone reminded Brad of his senior lit teacher.
Dr. Fenimore leaned forward in his chair, with his hands clasped in front of him. “It is an open question.”
“What is?” Danita Harris asked.
“Whether the deaths were suspicious or not,” he replied.
“Fine, then why did you involve Mr. Frame?”
Fenimore held his hands, palms up, out in front of him. “I wanted to take precautions without setting off alarms. Brad is a friend that I trust. I was, ah, coming up to see you when you called. There have now been three deaths.”
Danita Harris glared at the doctor before gathering herself up out of the chair and crossing to her desk. She pushed a button on her phone and announced, “Tony, would you tell Edward Carlton to come to my office right away.”
Alan Fenimore lost his temper and shouted. “That’s all we need. Six months ago I asked Ed to investigate a case of theft from a nurse’s handbag. He came in like a storm trooper, wanted to polygraph everyone, made unfounded allegations to the staff, and prompted a two-week sick-out by half the RN’s in this building. He never did find the five dollars that was missing, but I’m still dealing with the recriminations.”
Brad and Sharon exchanged glances. They had worked together for several years and she seemed to share his perspective to help protect the client, if at all possible, from making a fool of himself. Brad cleared his throat in an effort to get Alan’s attention, and saw Alan ease back a bit in his chair.
Danita Harris aimed her finger at Alan Fenimore as she returned to her seat. Her voice had an edge to it. “Doctor, excuse me, but we are talking about an issue a lot more important than five dollars.”
Larry Whitmore spoke, with a nasal twang. “We have more than three hundred patients. We need to be concerned about their welfare, as well as public relations.”
Not to mention the potential for nine-figure lawsuits. A lawyer heading Public Affairs wasn’t unusual, but maybe his legal counsel was the reason Ms. Harris had invited him.
“If I might,” Brad began, “Alan told you a few minutes ago that it was an open question whether the deaths were suspicious. Early this morning a patient died who’d had a combined heart-lung transplant. He had been in critical condition before the surgery, and was not making a good recovery afterwards. That death was unfortunate, but prompted no concern from the attending physician. Then Alan heard about the second death late this morning—of a kidney transplant patient that had been making a good recovery—and he did two things. He ordered an autopsy and he called me. I think he has acted responsibly. I attended the autopsy after I arrived.”
Sharon placed her coffee cup on the glass table and reached into her purse and withdrew a small notebook and pen. Except for his brief explanation over the phone, Brad realized she was hearing the details of the case for the first time. She began taking notes.
Harris turned to the doctor, and quietly said, “You mentioned a third death.”
Brad responded for him. “While we were still attending the autopsy Alan had ordered, he got word that another transplant patient, who’d received a new liver, had died. We’ve just come from her room. The patient’s IV line looked as if it had been tampered with and I saw a substance on the floor that we’re having tested. Based on what I observed, I believe it could be the scene of a crime, and that the police should be involved.”
Danita Harris slumped back into her seat, while no-taste-in-ties practically jumped out of his. “That’s exactly what we want to avoid,” Larry Whitmore roared. “We need our own security force investigating this case. Otherwise there’ll be headlines announcing a murder at Strickland Memorial."
Danita Harris’ eyes weren’t focused. “Larry, I absolutely agree,” she mumbled, or it sounded that way because her hand was in front of her mouth. She appeared to be deciding what to do next. “Alan you said there was an autopsy. Do we have the findings?”
Dr. Fenimore shook his head. “Not yet. There was nothing of consequence during the post-mortem examination. We’re waiting on the results of toxicology tests.”
“Then we’ll wait for those results,” she said, “before taking any additional action. I definitely want to keep this out of the media.”
“I’ve already contacted the police,” Brad announced.
Larry Whitmore went ballistic. “You did what? Where do you get the right to bring in the police to a private medical facility? We don’t need a dozen cops swarming all over this building. Oh, God,” he said, rubbing his hand across his bald head, “this is gonna be all over the media by tonight.”
Brad uncrossed his legs and moved to the edge of his seat. “First of all this building won’t be swarming with
police. I called my friend Nick Argostino who is a deputy chief in the homicide division. He will meet me here tonight, learn what I know, take a report and assign a detective to work with the hospital. As far as the media is concerned, have you looked outside lately?”
Like the good tag team they could be, Sharon said, “We’ve got the worst winter storm I’ve seen in about ten years. It’ll be forty-eight hours before reporters will want to talk about anything other than this storm.”
The lawyer’s face flushed a dark pink, which clashed with his tie.
Danita Williams-Harris got to her feet. She held her hand out in a gesture to calm the lawyer, before looking at Brad. “Are you saying we might have a serial killer here in the hospital?”
“It’s too early to jump to that conclusion,” Brad said. “I’m ninety-percent sure that we just left a crime scene on the seventh floor, and it defies probability that both of the other deaths are merely a coincidence.”
Ms. Harris paced in front of her desk, seemingly trying to grasp the import of Brad’s words.
Brad spoke. “If you are concerned about the media Mr. Whitmore, I’ve got a question for you. Ms. Harris said you were the one who informed her of two suspicious deaths. Who told you?”
The lawyer fumed. “It was anonymous.”
“Male anonymous?” Brad asked. “Female anonymous?”
Everyone’s eyes were focused on Larry Whitmore.
“I can’t tell—” he started to say.
“Oh, yes, you can!” Danita Harris demanded.
Whitmore cleared his throat. “I mean I couldn’t tell. It was a voice over the phone. It was a husky whisper. It could have been a man or a woman.”
Sharon interjected. “That’s bad news. A husky whisper can make a phone call to a TV station as easily as it can call your office.”
Alan Fenimore reached for the phone on his belt. It must have been in vibration mode since Brad never heard a noise. “I’ve just been paged,” he said, looking at the number. “It’s Dr. Dubei.” Alan rose from his seat. “I have to call him.”
