by Ray Flynt
He took a step back as the duty nurse opened the door and asked, “Is everything okay doctor?” Brad wondered how long she’d been listening at the door.
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s not.” Alan Fenimore glowered at him, while through the open door Brad could see Sharon being directed to the room by the receptionist.
Alan fumbled in his pocket and withdrew an amber colored prescription bottle, which then slipped out of his hands and tumbled across the floor landing at the duty nurses’ feet. She reached down and picked it up, examining the label before handing it back.
Sharon arrived and stood in the doorway, of what was becoming a very crowded room. With all eyes on him, Alan made two unsuccessful attempts at removing the cap. Finally, it yielded, and he rolled two pills into his hand, popped them into his mouth, and reached for the bottled water, struggling to twist off the cap before washing down the pills.
The nurse hesitated as she looked from Dr. Fenimore to Brad and then back to the doctor. “Would you like me to speak with Dr. Bradbury about relieving—”
“Just leave,” Fenimore interrupted her. “Now!” he shouted.
Sharon squeezed through the opening before the duty nurse shut the door.
“Who’s this?” Alan said mockingly. “Another accuser?”
Sharon froze, and glanced at Brad with a look of horror and mouthed What’s going on?
“Sit down, Alan. Something is terribly wrong here. It’s been a long day, and I don’t need your false indignation,” Brad said with a twinge of sarcasm in his voice. “It might work for Danita Harris, but I’ve known you for too long. I want you to tell me your theory of why Dubei tested H2O on the sample from Ms. McCullough’s room.”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Dr. Dubei? He seems to be advising you now.”
“No. You’re the medical director; I want to give you the first crack at it.”
Alan stayed on his feet, and shifted his weight like a boxer waiting to go another round. “Maybe Dubei switched the samples?”
“For what purpose? If he wanted to cover up drugs used in a homicide then why would he reveal the results of the autopsies to us? Which brings us back to you or Pedro.”
Alan grabbed his left hand with his right and kneaded it vigorously. “You think I switched the sample don’t you.”
“I don’t know what to think. I have to hear from everyone else how much you’ve changed recently. Tales of you running people out of the chapel—”
“What?” Alan shouted so loud, Brad expected the nurse to return any second. “I found people smoking in there, and I told them to get out.”
“And you skipped out on a surgery without telling anyone.”
Alan threw up his hands. “I don’t believe this. I told the… surgical… nurse… on duty,” Alan said, emphasizing every word. “She left and never told anyone!” Brad admired his friend’s defensive posture, and wished he’d exhibited it earlier in Harris’ office.
“They,” Alan aimed one finger at the ceiling and another at the floor, with the clear implication he meant Dr. Dubei and Danita Harris, “tell you a few stories and now you believe I switched the sample you gave me?”
“It’s a possibility,” Brad said softly.
“Why would I do that?” Alan asked.
“Maybe to cover up your involvement in murder.”
Brad didn’t know who looked more surprised, Alan or Sharon. She gave him a have-you-lost-your-mind stare, while Alan’s shoulders sagged, and he let out a groan. Finally, after rubbing the bridge of his nose, Alan said, “But I was the one who called you… who asked you to come here in the first place.”
There was a double rap at the door. The duty nurse opened it and announced, “Dr. Bradbury said to tell you he can handle things for the rest of the night.” She quickly backed out the door, and started to close it.
Alan called out as the door was nearly closed, “Tell him, I’ll speak with him in a few more minutes.”
Alan Fenimore wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Let’s see, where were we? Oh, yes, you were accusing me of murder.”
“I’m investigating three murders, and one attempted murder,” Brad said. “Right now you’re my prime suspect. I can’t put my finger on it, Alan, but the way you’re behaving isn’t right. I figure I owe you the opportunity to give me an explanation.”
Alan reached for his errant chair, rolled it closer, and straddled it so his chest was resting against the back of it as he faced Brad. “How about an alibi?” he asked.
“Oh, we like alibis,” Brad said, “especially when friends can prove they have one.”
Alan sighed, and Sharon perched on the edge of her chair.
When Alan spoke, he seemed less hostile. “I’m not sure I can account for my whereabouts at each of the deaths, but I know where I was when Michael Severns was killed this morning. I was undergoing radiation treatment for my brain tumor.”
It was as if all the air went out of the room. Sharon gasped.
“Alan, no,” Brad said. “How long have you known?”
“Since mid-November.”
“Did Marie…”
“No,” he said, and continued to shake his head. “She never knew. I was keeping it from her. I thought after the holidays I would tell her, but then…”
Alan’s voice thickened and Sharon stepped toward him and draped her arm around his shoulder.
Several quiet moments passed before Brad spoke. “I saw Ken earlier this evening. He told us about an incident at Thanksgiving when Marie was urging you to get a physical.”
Alan sniffled and wiped his nose with his handkerchief. “I already knew then. That was when I realized that people around me could see the signs as the tumor grew and began to affect my motor functions. Dr. Clark is my oncologist. It’s known as a Glioblastoma Multiforme—GBM for short—a highly malignant tumor and, in my case, located in the brain stem. It’s inoperable, I’m afraid.” The doctor held the back of his head with his right hand. “I’ve been undergoing aggressive radiation treatments two to three times a week in an effort to stall the growth of the tumor.”
“The prognosis?” Brad asked.
“The tumor will live; the patient unfortunately will die.”
“How long?”
“If I’m lucky, I’ll see spring one more time.”
Chapter Thirteen
10:05p.m., Wednesday, January 10th
Brad didn’t know how long they remained frozen in place. It could hardly have been more than a minute, but felt like eternity. He and Alan looked at one another across four feet of space and three decades of familiarity. Experience hadn’t prepped him for this moment, and dozens of high school and college memories swept through his brain like a tsunami.
He glanced at Sharon, who stood with her arm still draped over Alan’s shoulder, tears glistening in her eyes. She’d only met Alan hours earlier, but they’d managed to connect, perhaps in that quiet moment in the corner of Danita Harris’ office.
“Wait here,” Brad said to Alan, then motioned for Sharon to join him in the hallway, where he closed the door behind them.
Sharon reached into her purse to retrieve a tissue and blew her nose.
“I’d like a few minutes alone with Alan,” Brad said. “How’d you make out on finding hotel rooms?”
Sharon shook her head. “Unless you want to stay in Conshohocken.”
“But we could get home—”
“That’s what I said.”
“Alright, let me think about plan B. I’ll be a few minutes.”
Brad re-entered the consulting room. Alan straddled the wheeled desk chair with his chest against the backrest. He looked up at Brad, and then cast his eyes downward.
“Alan, I had no idea.” He took out his notebook. “You mentioned your radiation treatment. Who handles that?”
Alan snorted before he said, “Janet Levinson, in the Oncology department.”
Brad scribbled the information in his notebook.
&nb
sp; “You still don’t trust me?” Alan said.
Brad smiled. “Trust but verify; isn’t that what we used to tell the Soviets?”
Alan frowned. Brad would have to check his friend’s alibi, but he also wondered if a more advanced facility, like the Mayo Clinic, might be able to treat Alan’s tumor. Strickland memorial wasn’t large, even by Philadelphia standards. The University of Pennsylvania Medical Center was much larger. The Strickland name didn’t evoke a particular medical specialty, either. Until this visit, Brad hadn’t known that they did organ transplants.
“You’ll like Janet.” Alan stood, and then reached for his briefcase propped against the wall. “I have something for you.” He unzipped the case, retrieved a small wooden picture frame and handed it to Brad. Surrounded by a beige matte was a three by five photograph of Alan and Marie.
“That’s from our 25th wedding anniversary,” Alan said. “I wanted all the pallbearers to have one.”
Brad gazed at the photograph. He recognized the setting as the Fenimore’s back yard. Marie wore an ivory colored strapless gown. Her face glowed, while Alan’s beamed, full of love, as he stared at Marie; his tuxedo marked by a bright blue cummerbund and matching pocket handkerchief. Brad remembered that September night a few months earlier when the picture had been taken. He and Beth were among fifteen couples invited to a catered dinner at the Fenimore’s followed by a chamber music recital at the Academy of Music. Alan had rented a luxurious bus to transport the group. How much things had changed in a short time; Marie gone and Alan now facing a similar fate.
Brad drew a finger across the corner of his eye.
“I’m not afraid to die,” Alan said.
Brad didn’t know what to say. The silence felt awkward and Alan regarded him as if expecting a response. Gesturing to the photograph, Brad said, “I’ll treasure this, Alan. Thank you.”
There was a rap on the door, and a white-jacketed doctor entered. Addressing Dr. Fenimore, he said, “I think we can manage here, Alan. Dr. Cohen’s planning to arrive about five in the morning. They’ve got four-wheel drive, and she’s expecting her husband home in time to watch the kids. I should have relief by then.”
“Thanks, Lou,” Fenimore said, grabbing his briefcase, “I’m going up to my office. Try to catch a few winks. If you need me, call.”
“Alright, Alan,” the doctor said.
Alan Fenimore began to follow Lou out the door, but Brad stopped him. “Danita Harris promised me an office on the fifth floor.” Alan winced at the mention of her name. “We were hoping to get hotel rooms for the night, but Sharon hasn’t been able to locate any. I’ll be able to catch up on my sleep in the office, but I’m wondering if there is any chance you could get Sharon admitted, preferably to a room on the seventh floor so that she’ll be able to keep her eyes and ears open and also get a little sleep?”
Alan pursed his lips. “I can manage that. There are a few privileges to being the medical director, including admitting phantom patients—though I don’t think that’s mentioned in the Hippocratic Oath—well, maybe it is; we’re not doing any harm. They’ll probably ask for insurance information, but I can destroy the record after you leave.”
“She has an insurance card.”
“Well then, we’ll give her a perfunctory exam and see about getting her on the seventh floor.”
Brad and Alan exited the consulting room, and when Alan spotted Sharon leaning against the opposite wall, he said in a booming voice, “Now then, young lady, I understand you haven’t been feeling well?”
Sharon looked at Brad quizzically.
Brad leaned over and whispered in Sharon’s ear. “I think I’ve found you a room for the night.”
Chapter Fourteen
1:30 a.m., Thursday, January 11th
Whoever thought the wheels of justice grind slowly never spent any time in a hospital emergency room. Brad had this crazy idea of getting me admitted so I could a) get some sleep, and b) act as a spy on the seventh floor. Dr. Fenimore readily agreed, and that was three hours ago.
Fenimore escorted me down the corridor in the emergency department, and when he found examining room #17 empty, directed me to enter and have a seat. He then motioned for one of the nurses, and I heard him tell her that I wasn’t feeling well.
“Was she processed at intake?” the nurse asked suspiciously. She already knew the answer, since she’d seen me come and go from the consulting room with Brad and Alan Fenimore.
“I don’t think so,” Dr. Fenimore mumbled, and the nurse looked puzzled. “You could have the intake officer come back here,” he added.
Her eyes widened, as if an alien creature had appeared over the doctor’s shoulder. I could tell that the woman didn’t know how to deal with a situation contrary to standard operating procedure.
“Just get her ready and I’ll be back in a minute to examine her,” Dr. Fenimore said.
The front wall of the room was a sliding glass door, with one of the sliders open. I could see Brad standing in the hallway talking on his smartphone. He occasionally pivoted in my direction and waved at me through the glass.
Ten minutes passed before the nurse returned. She handed me a hospital gown and a plastic bag and instructed me to take off everything except my underwear, put on the gown, and leave my belongings in the plastic bag. “Once you’ve changed,” she instructed, “you can have a seat on that bed.” She pointed toward a glorified gurney on which a flannel sheet had been stretched, and the back tilted at a forty-five degree angle.
The nurse pulled a curtain across the front of the room and disappeared behind it.
I sighed, got undressed, and tried to figure out how to get into the flimsy cotton gown she’d given me. I thought the open side was to the front, but then realized I’d be too exposed. So I slid my arms into the sleeves and then contorted like a pretzel to tie it in the back. Have they never heard of Velcro or zippers? The one-size-fits-all gown must have been designed by a voyeuristic sadist. I placed my shoes in the bottom of the plastic bag and folded my clothes carefully on top of them. I wondered where to stow my purse, and figured the bag was as good a place as any, so I stuffed it in and covered it with my blouse. Finally, I boosted myself on to the gurney, wondering how a truly sick or frail person would accomplish that feat. I pictured Olympic judges holding up cards reading 9.7. Go USA.
In the middle of my reverie Dr. Fenimore drew the curtain back and walked in with Brad.
“She looks a little peaked, Doc, don’t you think?” Brad said.
Out of Alan Fenimore’s view, I flashed Brad my middle finger. He laughed.
Fenimore didn’t stay any longer than he had to, simply listened to my heart with a stethoscope and asked me to open my mouth and say, “Ah.”
“I think we’ll admit her for observation.” Fenimore winked at Brad. “I’ll go write the order.”
“Thanks, Alan,” Brad said.
After the doctor left, Brad explained that he’d heard from Carlton. “Here’s your hospital ID,” Brad said, handing me a plastic card attached to a lanyard. “It might come in handy. I’m heading for Carlton’s office. They’ve got a space where I can work, use a computer and take time to rest. I’ll catch up with you later.”
That was three hours ago.
The four inch thick mattress on the gurney lost all cushioning ability two-and-one-half hours earlier.
After languishing on the gurney for an hour, a tech arrived and announced he was drawing blood. “But I’m not really…” I started to say, then remembered not to blow my cover. He asked to see my wristband, and when I said I didn’t have one, he jumped back like I had leprosy. “Ah, I’ll have to come back,” he muttered. This was okay by me, since I wasn’t anxious to be stuck with any needles.
The tech drew the curtain closed, and ten minutes after he left I got up to pull the curtain back so that I could keep an eye on the comings and goings in the emergency room. I folded my arms across my chest in disgust, and not long afterward I fell asleep.
> “Ms. Porter?” Someone was calling my name. I opened my eyes to see a woman with a clipboard standing at the foot of my gurney. “Sharon Porter?” she repeated.
“Yes,” I croaked. My mouth felt dry.
“I need to get your insurance information,” she said. It dawned on me that I wasn’t going anywhere until they were assured of payment. I glanced at my watch and realized only twenty minutes had passed.
“Hand me that bag,” I asked, pointing to my belongings near my feet. I fished through my purse for my wallet, and found my insurance card.
“I’ll also need your photo ID.”
I handed her that as well, and she said she needed to make a copy of both and would be right back. Her definition of “right back” was a half-hour later. Like I said, the wheels of medicine grind slowly.
After I got the little plastic wristband with my name and date of birth, things moved at glacial speed. The tech returned and drew blood. One word: Ouch! And a little later, a nurse came in to say that they were still trying to identify a room for me, and told me how much she appreciated my patience. Yeah, right.
My watch said one-twenty-five a.m. when the nurse stood in the doorway and announced, “Transport should be here shortly. You’re going to 704 North.”
“Transport” was a tall guy named Leo, who looked like he could be a defensive end for the Eagles.
“Sharon Porter?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
He glanced at my bare legs, and said, “You need a sheet. Let me get you a sheet.”
Seconds later he returned, covered me with a sheet and maneuvered the gurney through the doorway of the room, down the hall, into an elevator. We were on our way.
“Is it still snowing?” I asked.
“You bet. Twenty inches so far and more coming. I ain’t going nowhere. Lots of overtime this week.” He grinned.
Leo rolled me off the elevator on the seventh floor, and I saw Crystal Himes standing behind the nurses’ station. “New arrival,” he announced, and continued to roll me toward room 704 and what I hoped would be a night of peace and quiet.
