by Ray Flynt
Solving serial killings might be out of his own league, Brad thought, and planned on more consultation with Nick Argostino. Unlike Carlton, he wouldn’t use a sledge hammer approach to dealing with the hospital’s staff.
Sharon reached for a wedge of Gouda cheese from the plate in front of her.
“You’ll have to gain the confidence of the medical staff, Brad,” Harris said. “The manner of death and the type of poisons used point to one of our medical professionals as the killer. I don’t want you antagonizing the doctors, nurses and technicians or everything will grind to a halt around herewhat the storm hasn’t already affected. The nurses are on a labor contract extension right now, and this is just the kind of situation that could get everyone on edge.” Harris paused and drew her colorful kente scarf more tightly about her shoulders. The warmth faded from her voice, replaced by a dry rasp. “I need your help to keep this place from falling apart because of this incident.”
Harris poured herself more coffee.
“What are you proposing?” Brad asked.
She drew the steaming cup to her lips, but spoke before sipping. “A consultancy for you and Sharon. A $15,000 retainer plus expenses and $3,000 a day for the next week. I’ll have Larry Whitmore draw up the papers in the morning, but I’d like you to start now. You can set up a command post right here.” She gestured around the small conference room. “That way you can keep me posted on developments.”
Brad shook his head. “You don’t have a week.”
He watched as Danita Harris sagged in her chair. “I know… I know,” she muttered.
Brad pointed at his watch. “By this time tomorrow night Strickland Memorial will be ground zero for the biggest local news story of the year, and out on the AP wire and all over the country within minutes. If a suspect isn’t in custody by Friday morning, you’ll be lucky to have enough patients over the weekend to call yourself a hospital.”
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t try to solve this,” Harris countered with an edge to her voice.
“I agree,” Brad said.
Sharon leaned into the table. “What Brad is saying is that we’re facing an uphill battle.”
Harris looked hopefully toward Brad.
Brad said, “I think we’ve got less than thirty hours to take action. I didn’t come here earlier this afternoon for money. I came to help a friend. So I’m not going to accept your retainer. Besides, if we’re not successful in finding the killer by tomorrow night, you might as well let the police handle any further investigation. I talked with a friend of mine from the Philadelphia police a little over an hour ago. He was here, knows of my suspicions, and told me that because of the storm it may be tomorrow until the police can begin a formal investigation. The more people who know what’s going on at this hospital, the greater jeopardy its patients are in.” He hoped she got his distinction of protecting people rather than institutions.
“I don’t want to set up my command post here,” Brad added. “It’s too remote from the action. Can you put us on the seventh floor?”
Harris tugged at the necklace of gold rings cascading down the front of her blouse. “Like you, I don’t want to alarm people unnecessarily. If I put you on the seventh floor, the nursing staff would have to know why. I’d rather you did your work quietly.”
“The seventh floor nursing staff has already met us,” Sharon explained. “They know about the deaths. By my count there should be three rooms sealed off with crime scene tape. That’ll give ‘em a clue,” Sharon said, wryly.
Harris shook her head. “We’re handling the crime scenes with a bit more discretion. I don’t want to alarm the patients. The fifth floor is undergoing renovation, and its West wing is closed off. I’m sure we can find you a room there to use as your headquarters.”
Brad propped his hands under his chin. “I’ll need ID for Sharon and me that will give us access anywhere in the hospital.”
Harris waved her hand, as if to say not a problem. “You might need escorts into sensitive areas.”
“Such as?” Brad asked, warily.
“For example, surgical suites, radiology, and the pharmacy,” she said.
Brad leaned back in his chair, and swiveled it slightly toward Danita Harris. “We won’t interrupt any surgery, but the pharmacy is one of the places I intend to visit.”
“No problem. Let me know and I’ll arrange an escorted visit.”
Brad cleared his throat. “Danita, I’d prefer not to have Ed Carlton’s staff breathing over my shoulder while I’m trying to conduct an investigation.”
“I’ll arrange for the visits to be escorted by the appropriate department head—the chief pharmacist in the case of the hospital’s pharmacy,” she explained.
Brad nodded. “Sounds good.”
Harris rolled her chair back and started to stand. “I’m grateful for your help, Brad.”
Brad held up his hand, showing two fingers. “Two more things.” Harris hesitated but resumed her seat. “First, I want you to understand that while I don’t intend to advertise my involvement in an investigation, that I will not participate in nor condone any cover-up. I will cooperate with the police when necessary and get out of their way when they ask me. The evidence will lead where the evidence leads.”
“Absolutely,” Harris said, as if Brad could hardly ascribe any other motive to her.
“Second, I came here earlier today because of my friendship with Dr. Alan Fenimore. Frankly, that is all that has kept me here until now. I don’t understand internal hospital politics, but from our earlier meeting, I suspect Alan’s time at Strickland Memorial may be limited. As long as I am working on this case I intend to share my findings directly with Dr. Fenimore. I’ll keep you apprised, after I confer with Alan—only then.”
Harris stood. “If that is the way it has to be, then….” She turned her palms up. “I don’t intend to control the way you do your work. I deal with consultants every day, and I allow them to do what they do best. They advise me and then I decide what is in the best interest of Strickland Memorial.” She walked behind Brad’s chair to the architect’s model of the hospital. “I’ve dealt with five or six consulting firms just on our little expansion project here.” She pointed to the model of the proposed new wing, as Brad swiveled in his chair to look. “Every day it seems like I’m dealing with architects, structural engineers, interior designers, public art specialists, and capital campaign consultants. They all know what they’re doing, Brad, just like you. We started buying the land for this project four years ago. Last May we completed land acquisition and held a press conference to unveil our plans. The next day we got a letter from a man who claimed that his great-great-great-to-the-sixth-power-grandfather—a hero of the Revolutionary War, no less—was buried in one of the small parcels of land we had acquired. He threatened to sue in order to halt our project. I’ve had two title attorneys spending the last six months researching his claim. It’s cost us $40,000 in legal fees, but finally last week they cleared our title to the land, and proved the man’s claims as fraudulent.” She paused and gazed at Brad. “That’s what I deal with, in varying degrees, every day.”
As Harris spoke, Brad had extracted the notebook from his pocket, placing it in front of him on the table. He started making a list of the things he would need to aid in the investigation.
“It’s going to take $93 million dollars to turn this dream into reality,” Harris continued, pointing at the model. “Most of the meetings I have in this room are with consultants and the building committee of our board. Depending on what kind of a mood the committee is in, we might spend an hour choosing a carpet color for the new visitors’ center, or two minutes deciding whether to budget $7 or $9 million in contingency for cost overruns on the project. Whatever we decide, it’s my job to make it happen.” Harris moved next to Brad’s chair, and looked down at him. “I don’t have a clue how to solve a murder, Brad. But just like all those other consultants we hire, you’re gonna tell me… God willing by tomorrow noon, or at
least the next day… and then I’m going to factor in the ten thousand things that I have to be concerned about.” Harris circled back to her chair, but remained standing.
“My mind is already working overtime on the contingencies,” she continued. “What am I going to do when you tell me that one of our nurses is systematically killing our patients because she didn’t get a raise last November? Or what if you discover that a former patient that we’ve managed to irritate has gotten himself admitted to our hospital again, only this time he’s brought a supply of lethal chemicals?” She shuddered. “You do what you have to do, Brad. If it means Dr. Fenimore gets to have these weighty matters preying on his mind ten minutes before they get to mine, then fine.”
Brad pushed his chair back and stood up. “I appreciate the difficult choices you have to make every day. In the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter what color the carpet is; we’re talking about life and death. You’ve got a couple of dead bodies down in the morgue, and I assume you’d prefer not to have any more.”
“I’m grateful that you’re going to help us,” she said. “But if you’re going to work for us, I’ll need to pay you at least $1 so that you’re covered under our liability policy.”
Brad nodded. “Have your attorney prepare whatever you need.” He opened his notebook, scribbled his phone number on the top of the page where he’d made the list and handed it to Danita Harris. “That’s my digital phone number. Call me when our command post is set up on the fifth floor. Also, there is the list of things I’ll need, as soon as possible.”
Harris scanned the list, and looked like she regretted engaging his services. “There are a few items here… frankly we might not have them until mid-morning.”
“ASAP,” Brad repeated. “Starting with the video surveillance tapes.”
Chapter Ten
9:10 p.m., Wednesday, January 10th
“What’s wrong?” Sharon asked as they waited for an elevator outside Danita Harris’ office.
“I feel like we’ve wasted the last two and a half hours.” Brad glanced at his watch. “I can‘t argue with the direction Harris wants to take, but we tried to tell her that several hours ago.”
“What’s our game plan? What would you like me to do?”
“I’d like to learn more about the patients that have died. Alan might be able to help, but I‘ve asked Harris for their medical records, and we should get to know the 7th floor nursing staff a little better.” Sharon nodded and he was glad they were on the same page. “I figure we can work until midnight and then hit it hard first thing in the morning. So while I go look for Alan, and find out if he’s still talking to me, why don’t you round up two hotel rooms for us downtown.”
Brad tried handing her his digital phone, but she patted her purse indicating she‘d use her own.
“I could use your credit card. They’ll ask for a number, and they don’t usually charge but since we’ll be arriving late…” She let the thought go unfinished. “Besides, my credit card is maxed out right now.
He fished his American Express card out of his wallet and handed it to her.
“Thanks. I saw a sign earlier that the cafeteria would remain open,” Sharon said. “I’m going to get something to drink and call hotels from there.”
The elevator thudded to a stop at the lobby level. “You want anything?” Sharon asked.
Brad patted his tummy. “I’m still full from the snacks in Harris’ office.”
Sharon grinned. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
“If you don’t find me in the ER, call me.”
They parted company and Brad passed the now closed coffee shop, and through the lobby following signs to the emergency room. He realized he’d be following the route that Nick Argostino had taken. He paused near the main entrance and stared out at the storm blanketing Philadelphia. Wind, howling so loudly he could it hear it through the double-paned windows, swirled the snow into four foot drifts against the pillars holding up the canopy that covered the entry. It looked like the hospital’s maintenance crew had given up trying to clear the sidewalk. Orange cones marked a path to the street, held snuggly to the ground by fresh snow lapping at the side of each marker. He couldn’t remember a worse winter storm.
A solitary figure emerged from the men’s room, headed in Brad’s direction. The man paused briefly to zip up a thick, quilted parka. As he got closer, Brad thought he recognized him and said, “Ken?”
The man looked up, surprised at first, and then a glimmer of recognition crossed his face. “Mr. Frame,” he said, as he pulled back the hood on his jacket uncovering thick dark brown hair. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just on my way to see your dad.”
Ken Fenimore brushed the hair out of his eyes before he reached to shake Brad’s hand.
Brad found himself staring. Ken was tall like his father and had the same charcoal eyes. He remembered when Ken was born, twenty-four years earlier.
“Is everything okay?” Ken asked.
“Sure. Just thinking how much you look like your father during our days at Princeton.”
Ken blushed and shook his head. It wasn’t the first time he’d been told he looked like his father, nor did he seem comfortable with the comparison.
“What brings you here on a night like this?” Brad asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. I work here,” Ken said.
“Your dad never mentioned you working here.”
Ken arched an eyebrow as if to say he wasn’t surprised. “I’m assistant director of accounting. It’s the kind of job a Harvard MBA can get if he’s got connections.” Brad remembered Alan’s angst when Ken chose Harvard over Princeton for his undergraduate work. Your son could choose worse ways to break free of your influence, Brad had counseled him. Of course, Alan had earned his medical degree from Harvard, so in a way, Ken still followed his footsteps. “I’ve been here for about a year and a ha” Ken paused, his eyes widened and he asked, “Is something wrong with dad?”
Brad shook his head, and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Alan called me this morning. He asked me to do investigative work here at the hospital.”
Ken looked as his watch, as if to ask this-late-at-night?
“About your dad…” Brad began, “maybe you can help me. I’ve known Alan for a long time—since high school—but we don’t see each other that often anymore. How does he seem to you lately?”
The features on Ken’s face tightened, making him look even more like his father. “There’s something different about him. He took Mom’s death hard—we all did. He’s more distant. It’s funny, though, I noticed it even before Mom died.”
Brad surveyed the area and spied a couple of leather chairs near the windows. He grasped Ken’s shoulder with one hand and pointed to the chairs. “If you have the time, let’s talk.”
Ken gestured toward the window. “I’m not in any rush to head out there. We’re only three blocks from the subway. As long as the trains are running I can get home tonight, my apartment is two blocks from the Snyder subway stop.”
Brad nodded, he was familiar with the South Philly neighborhood.
“I had to work late tonight,” Ken added. “We’re getting ready for the auditors next week.”
Ken unzipped his coat and threw it over the back of a chair before sitting. It was then Brad noticed he had a canvas shoulder bag with Strickland Memorial’s logo on it. Brad sat in the chair facing him.
“Alan told me he gets to see you about once a week,” Brad said.
“Yeah, I try to go out to his place on the weekend. It was a tradition Mom started after I got my own apartment. She used to invite me for Sunday dinner. Now, Dad and I go out for brunch on Saturday or Sunday, whichever works best for our schedules. A couple of times we’ve ordered a pizza so we could watch the Eagles game. Here at the hospital, we hardly see each other, or only when he wants something. When I first got this job, I figured Dad and I would have lunch a couple times
a week.” Ken laughed. “I was kinda hoping he’d buy since I was just getting set up in an apartment on my own after college. I think we did lunch once—my treat for him helping me to get this job. Since then we always seem to be too busy.”
“Your dad looks tired,” Brad commented.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Ken frowned. “Maybe it’s because he’s getting older.” Brad and Alan were the same age, but he didn’t take umbrage at Ken’s observation. “He’s moving a little slower—or more deliberately—I can’t quite pin it down,” Ken continued. “Mom must have noticed too. She was bugging him to get a checkup.”
“When was that?” Brad asked.
“At Thanksgiving. Mom nagged him to schedule a physical. She started off playfully, and at first he joked about it, but then, as we were finishing our dinner, Mom got all emotional and started to cry.”
“What did your dad do?” Brad asked.
Ken huffed and shrugged his shoulders. “Just what he always does in the middle of an argument, he clammed up. Mom cleared the table and tried to be more cheerful when she brought us dessert. Dad started talking again, but only about mundane things.” The pitch rose in his voice. “He can get on someone else’s case, but when it comes to accepting criticism himself, he shuts people out.”
He sensed Ken was talking about himself. Brad gave him a knowing smile, hoping he would elaborate.
Ken rolled his eyes. “Two years ago, before I was diagnosed with diabetes, he recognized all the warning signs and told me to get to my doctor. When I kept putting it off he brought out this kit, pricked my finger and did the glucose reading. It was 280.”
Brad’s father had been borderline diabetic, and he knew the reading should be under 120.
“I was able to control it with pills at first, but now I take insulin shots twice a day.”
“Was there a family history of diabetes?” Brad asked, thinking about his father’s condition.
“My Uncle Frank, Mom’s brother.”
“Back to your father’s health,” Brad said, “Other than tiredness, have you observed any physical changes… symptoms?”
