Transplanted Death

by Ray Flynt

  Brad contemplated the trip back to Bryn Mawr. “Maybe we should try to line up a couple of hotel rooms for tonight.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Sharon said.

  Brad caught a whiff of coffee, which drew him to the small and mostly deserted coffee shop. There were a dozen booths in addition to a long countertop with stools. The décor was art deco with a lot of chrome, mirrors, red vinyl seats, and black and white checkered floor tiles, but the facilities looked worn and in need of a makeover.

  “Sit wherever you’d like,” a woman shouted from behind the counter, where she’d just plopped a burger in front of one of her customers. “Just so you know, we’re closing early… in about thirty minutes. Specials are on the blackboard, but we’re out of tuna salad.”

  Sharon slid into the duct-taped-repaired-vinyl-covered bench across from Brad and began studying the menu. Brad saw a turkey club sandwich on the list of specials, and decided he didn’t need to look further.

  “Coffee?” the woman called from behind the counter. Brad and Sharon nodded and moments later she appeared with two steaming mugs. “I’ll be back in a minute to get your order.”

  Brad stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee, and glanced toward the shop entry hoping to see Alan.

  “I don’t think Carlton’s gonna bother us anymore,” Sharon said, misreading his stare.

  “No. I’m expecting Alan.”

  The waitress returned. Brad asked for the club sandwich special, while Sharon ordered a bowl of barley soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

  Silence fell on the table, and Brad watched as two patrons finished eating, paid and left. He found himself staring at art deco-styled metal letters on the wall - GOOD FOOD - and wondering if it had been a mistake to come to the hospital. Alan had asked for his help, but others resented his involvement. Their stated reasons were clear enough, but he didn’t know the team members well enough to figure out their hidden agendas.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Sharon said.

  Brad laughed.

  “It’s amazing how many issues the brain can process in a matter of seconds,” Brad said. “The mind flitting from one random thought to the next, with no apparent connections. I’m worried about Alan. I expected him to be here by now, and I’m hoping he’s just encountered an emergency rather than blowing me off. I think Danita Harris is making a big mistake in not confronting these deaths head-on, and afraid that PR is ruling the day. Then just for good measure I find myself wondering why they haven’t replaced these cushions rather than rely on duct-tape!”

  “I agree with you about duct-tape and Ms. Harris,” Sharon said. “Alan’s working in a short-staffed emergency room, so I’m sure he’s busy. I heard a siren just as we got off the elevator.”

  The waitress arrived with the food, and said, “We’re gonna shut down the grill now, since we don’t have any more customers, but take your time, because we’ve still got clean-up.”

  Between bites of her sandwich, Sharon filled Brad in on her conversation with Vesta Jackson.

  “Interesting that she pegged the person in a sweater and a cap as a man,” Brad said. “How reliable a witness is she?”

  “She impressed me.” Sharon took a few sips of her soup, and added, “She’s in her eighties, but still seemed sharp.”

  A distinctive Mozart tune—da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum-dee—emanated from the phone on Brad’s belt, one that he had programmed to indicate incoming calls from his friend and mentor, Nick Argostino. Brad withdrew his phone and answered, “Hey, Nick. We’re in the coffee shop. Where are you?” Brad shoved his mug toward the pot of hot coffee as the waitress stopped by the table. “We’re on the other side of the hospital, Nick, near the main entrance.”

  “Could we get another cup of coffee?” Brad called to the waitress. “A friend is joining us. He won’t need any food.”

  “Sure thing,” she replied. “Cream?”

  “Just black.”

  Brad replaced the phone on his belt. “Nick came to the 11th street emergency room. He claims that’s the only entrance to Strickland Memorial Hospital he knows.”

  Moments later Nick Argostino entered the coffee shop. It had been a couple of months since he’d seen him, and Brad figured he‘d gained about fifteen pounds. Nick’s moustache glistened with a coating of frost, and his cheeks glowed cherry red. Nick began peeling back layers of clothing, starting with a rubberized parka and hood. He brushed the moisture from his moustache and then hung up a wool pea jacket on a hook before sliding into the bench next to Sharon.

  “When I saw you just then,” Brad said, “I thought you needed to lose weight. But I see you’ve just mastered the layered look.”

  Nick unbuttoned a quilted vest and patted his stomach. “I’m still holding steady at one-sixty-five. Since Ruth got that promotion she doesn’t have time to bake as much anymore. Which is probably good for me,” he said ruefully. Nick tugged at the top of his shirt. “I got a T-shirt on under here and thermal underwear under that. This is as nasty a night as I can ever remember.”

  Brad shoved the mug of fresh coffee in front of Nick. “Then you can use this.”

  “Thanks,“ Nick said, “What’s goin’ on?”

  Brad recapped the day starting with the call he’d received from Alan Fenimore, the deaths of three transplant patients and the probable attempted murder of a fourth.

  “Any toxicology results?” Nick asked. “Sounds like drugs.”

  Brad shook his head. “I found a suspicious substance in Barbara McCullough’s room. They tested it and claimed it was only water. So my credibility is in doubt, but I think the sample was switched before testing.”

  “The department hasn’t had any calls about suspicious deaths here, or I’d have gotten a report.” Nick added, “I’ll check again when I get back to the station. I’m scheduled as duty officer tonight, but I’m already short of men. We‘ll appreciate any leads you develop.”

  “Well,” Brad said, “There’s another problem.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows.

  “Ed Carlton, the chief of security has ordered us to leave.”

  Nick sipped his coffee. “Cover-up?”

  “More like covering their asses,” Brad explained. “Lawyers and bureaucrats are calling the shots.”

  Nick frowned and nodded. “Yeah, lawyers and bureaucrats were paired on the Ark, and we’ve been getting screwed ever since.” Nick set his coffee mug down and laced his fingers behind his head. “Well, you tell Lumpy Carlton you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Lumpy?” Sharon repeated.

  “That’s what we called him when he worked on the police department.” Nick grinned. “Remember the movie Shaft—the original one?” he asked. Nick loved to tell stories, and Brad nodded, anticipating a good one. “Lumpy rented the video of Shaft,” Nick continued, “and afterwards decided he was gonna shave his head, but his bare head was all lumpy. That’s how he picked up the name. The guys rode him every day, and finally he started to grow his hair back. Lumpy only went bald for about three weeks, but the name stuck.”

  Sharon laughed.

  “Well, Lumpy is the sheriff in this here town,” Brad said.

  Nick stroked his mustache. “Tell Lumpy you’re under orders from the Mayor of Philadelphia to stay indoors. The Mayor declared a state of emergency about a half-hour ago. We’ve got massive power outages in the northeast and near the airport, and SEPTA trains are shut down on the Paoli and Chestnut Hill lines west of the city. The Ben Franklin bridge just closed because it’s so treacherous, and the Governor is probably gonna shut down the Interstates ‘cause they can’t keep up with their salt trucks. Maintenance crews are going crazy all over the city clearing snow off roofs to prevent them from collapsing. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.” Nick winked at Brad. “Step outside this building and I’ll arrest you and bring you back in.”

  “I’ll tell Lumpy you said that.” Brad glanced toward the hospital corridor. “Better yet, you can give him the good news yourse
lf. He’s headed our way.”

  Chapter Seven

  6:37p.m., Wednesday, January 10th

  Ed Carlton stood at the end of the table nervously picking at his cuticles. Even if Nick hadn’t shared his past work with Carlton, Brad would have known from their body language that they had a history, one where Carlton deferred to his superior. Only after Nick finished recounting the story of a BMW that had spun 180 degrees in front of him on the way to the hospital, did Carlton clear his throat. Nick turned and pretended to notice him for the first time. “Hey, Lumpy, how have you been? What are you doin’ here? Someone in your family sick?” Yeah, they definitely had a history.

  “I work here,” he said, flatly. “Heard you were coming. I was waiting for you in the main lobby.”

  “Waiting for me?” Nick feigned surprise. “I came through the ER. You know, the cop’s entrance. Been here about five minutes, just shootin’ the shit with Sharon and Brad. Oh hey,” Nick continued, “I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Brad Frame and his associate—.”

  Carlton cut him off. “I know all about Mr. Frame. I need to talk with him.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” Nick said, with a wide grin.

  “What do you want, Ed?” Brad asked. “I told you we were going to get something to eat.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Danita Harris called and asked me to find you,” Carlton explained. “She told me to escort you to Dr. Dubei’s office. I don’t know why. She said the doctor would explain.”

  Brad checked his watch, “We’re almost finished eating, and I need to make a phone call. We’ll meet you at the elevators off the main lobby in ten minutes.”

  Ed Carlton bobbed his head, but didn’t look happy. “Okay, ten minutes.” He took two steps backward before turning to leave the coffee shop.

  Nick called after him, “Good to see you again, Lumpy.”

  Brad clasped Nick’s hand. “Be safe out there.”

  Nick buttoned up his pea coat and slipped into the parka. “Tonight’s gonna be interesting. Anybody out on these roads that doesn’t have to be is crazy. Keep me posted on what’s happening here.”

  “Will do.”

  Sharon gave Nick a hug, and then he disappeared around the corner.

  Brad pulled out his phone. “After the call from Nick, I saw that I’ve missed two calls from Beth,” he explained. “I should give her a call.” He’d met Beth Montgomery eight months earlier at his father’s funeral, where he learned that she’d been his sister’s college roommate. Beth was an engineer with the New York City firm of Whitman-Oring, and since then they’d developed a cozy-not-too-serious long distance relationship, which gave them time to enjoy occasional weekends in either Philly or New York.

  “I’ll meet you at the elevators,” Sharon said, giving him his space.

  Brad dialed Beth’s number, and she picked up after three rings. He smiled at the sound of her voice, even if she did have an edge as she asked, “Where are you?”

  Brad didn’t want to panic her by initially saying that he was at Strickland Memorial Hospital. “Remember Alan Fenimore?” Beth had been with him at Marie’s funeral.

  “Yes.”

  “There’ve been a couple of suspicious deaths at the hospital, and he’s asked me to look into them.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re not at home.”

  “Afraid not.” Brad knew what was coming.

  “I’ve been watching the news and they said Philadelphia’s been hit hardest by this snow storm. They’re already shutting down New York. My office is closed tomorrow.”

  “You’re at your apartment now?”

  “Yes. I stopped at the deli and picked up supper.” Brad had been to that German deli during his last visit to New York, and he pictured a savory take-out container of bratwurst, sauerkraut and German potato salad.

  “Good. Stay indoors. We plan to do the same.”

  “Sharon’s with you?” Her tone was flat as she asked the question. Even though Beth was a career-minded woman, and never raised the prospect of taking their relationship to the next level, Brad always wondered if Beth saw Sharon as a rival. They spent a lot of time together, he and Sharon, and he knew guys who referred to the women in their offices as their ‘work spouse.’ He could see Sharon as the sister he no longer had, as a trusted colleague, a loyal employee, sounding board, but never as a spouse. In short, Beth had nothing to worry about.

  “She’s here,” he said matter-of-factly. “Off doing her own thing at the moment.”

  “Well, you stay warm and dry,” Beth said. “Call me in the morning.”

  Brad pocketed his phone and walked toward the elevators with a broad smile on his face. He found Ed Carlton chatting with a security guard and ignoring Sharon’s presence. Carlton wasn’t a hard man to read, prone to base instincts and stubbornly focused.

  “We’re ready to see Dr. Dubei,” Brad announced.

  “Follow me,” Carlton said, and aimed for the stairs next to the elevators. One level down, Carlton rushed past the security desk in the restricted area with a brusque “They’re with me.”

  Sights and smells of the corridor where Brad had visited several hours earlier brought back the image of Michael Severn on the autopsy table.

  Carlton gave three hard raps on a wooden door before opening it and announcing, “Here they are.”

  “Thanks, Ed.” Dr. Jamal Dubei said from his desk, before rising from a high-back leather chair. “Brad, I appreciate your time.”

  Brad introduced Sharon, and Dubei extended his hand. “Nice to meet you. Please have a seat.” The doctor pointed toward upholstered chairs in front of his desk.

  The room was dimly lit by a black metal torchére with a frosted glass shade that stood behind the desk, and left Dubei’s face shadowed in the indirect glow from the ceiling. He wore a white lab coat with his name embroidered on the front over the green scrubs Brad had seen him wearing earlier. There were several framed diplomas on the wall. His undergraduate degree was from the University of Chicago, and his Doctor of Medicine from the University of Pittsburgh. A third gilded-frame held a certificate from the College of American Pathologists.

  Brad pulled back the middle chair, permitting Sharon to pass in front of him. She eased herself into her seat.

  Ed Carlton remained standing. Dr. Dubei turned to him and said, “Ed, Danita asked me to tell you that she’d like to see you.”

  “She didn’t say anything about it when she asked me to bring them to you.” Carlton sounded agitated.

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know anything more. You can go, Ed.”

  Carlton was a man used to doing the dismissing, and he slammed the door behind him as he left. Dubei frowned, sat at his desk, and adjusted the halogen reading light before peering at an opened folder in front of him.

  “My assistant, Kim, completed the toxicology results on Michael Severns, the man we posted early this afternoon. We’ve detected the presence of pancuronium bromide.”

  “What’s that?” Brad asked, even though he already knew it was one of three drugs in the cocktail used for lethal injections—State sanctioned killings.

  “It’s a neuromuscular blocking agent,” Dubei explained. “One of several types used in surgery to relax the muscles and help with intubation.”

  Sharon shook her head. “Into… what?”

  “Intubation—the process of inserting an endotracheal tube into the patient,” Dubei said. “It’s used to manage breathing and for general anesthesia.”

  “But since he just had transplant surgery, wouldn’t you expect to find…” Sharon paused, trying to remember the name of the drug.

  The doctor smiled. “Pancuronium bromide?”

  “Yeah, that,” Sharon said hastily. “Wouldn’t you expect to find it?” Brad admired her question. He had thought the same thing, about two seconds later.

  “First, Mr. Severns’ surgery was three days ago, and if pancuronium bromide was used it wouldn’t have registered in the q
uantity we found. But it’s not recommended for patients with kidney or liver problems. I checked his medical chart. Anectine, another neuromuscular blocking agent, was used for his surgery.”

  Brad leaned his chin on one hand and gestured to Dubei with the other. “The pancuronium bromide would have caused Mr. Severns’ death?”

  “It would have contributed to his death,” Dubei explained, “producing cardiac arrhythmia.”

  The doctor turned over another page in the file on his desk.

  “Are we about to hear a but?” Brad asked. “It sounds like you’re planning to qualify what you’ve told us so far.”

  Dr. Dubei cocked his head. “I guess my face reads like an open book. We found a second drug present in Mr. Severns’ blood.”

  “An anesthetic,” Brad guessed, leaning back in his chair. He never imagined that attending the execution of one of the men responsible for the death of his mother and sister would serve as a primer for understanding what could be a lethal combination of drugs in this case.

  “Exactly. We found Propofol, which would sedate, keep the patient quiet, while the pancuronium bromide stopped his heart. Without the sedative, it is quite possible that the patient would have been able to signal his distress and counter measures could have been taken to prevent his death.” Brad wondered if that had been the case with Dennis Ayers. If the killer hadn’t used the right amount, then why?

  “Propofol. Isn’t that what killed Michael Jackson?” Sharon asked.

  “Yes, it was,” Dubei said.

  Brad massaged the muscles in his neck with his left hand, as he tried to connect the dots.

  “I contacted Danita as soon as we got the toxicology reports,” the doctor continued. “Now that we know what we’re looking for, Kim is running the tests on Barbara McCullough’s blood. We should know soon.”

  Brad said, “Doctor, if the patient had survived, would these chemicals be present in his urine?”

  “Yes, for a limited time, several hours afterward, they could be detected.”

  “About an hour ago,” Brad explained, “there was an incident with a young kidney transplant patient on the seventh floor. He went into cardiac arrest and the medical staff was able to revive him. They had to use a defibrillator. When we left the seventh floor, they were about to transfer him to the Intensive Care Unit. I noticed he still had a catheter and a urine collection bag. His name is Dennis Ayers.”