by Ray Flynt
That thought evaporated when I saw that 704 had two beds and my roommate was wide awake, watching TV.
Chapter Fifteen
11:00 p.m., Wednesday, January 10th
Ed Carlton stood outside the security office on 3-North. He was all business and didn’t seem anxious to spend more time with Brad than necessary. As Brad got closer, Carlton said, “We’ve got you set up down here.” He moved briskly down the hall, past a glass wall through which Brad could see TV monitors showing scenes from the hospital’s security cameras. He unlocked a door to a tiny room. Crowded into the space was a desk, chair, and storage shelves. There were no windows, and Brad sensed that perhaps the desk had been shoehorned into an area designed primarily for storage.
“Ms. Harris told me I’d have an office on the 5th floor,” Brad complained.
Carlton explained, “They’ve installed a new vinyl floor on five, and the fumes from the adhesive make the space unusable for a couple of days.”
Brad glared at Carlton, thought he saw a smile curling at his lips, and then surveyed the room again. A computer was set up on the desk, and there was a short stack of file folders. “Does this have Internet access?”
“You’re on a shared T-1 line.”
At least the connection would be fast. Brad knew he had to pick his battles. Harris could find him better accommodations, but how much longer would that take? Finally he said, “This will work.”
“Good. Here’s a key.” Carlton handed him a single key already on a ring. “And you got the IDs I sent for you and Ms. Porter?”
Brad nodded.
“Where is she, by the way?” Carlton asked.
“Sharon stopped to get coffee,” Brad said, not wanting to tip off Carlton to his assistant’s undercover work on the seventh floor. “She’s expecting to meet me on the fifth floor, so I’ll have to call her and tell her where I am.” Brad reached for his phone.
Carlton grunted, and turned to leave.
“When can I see the security video tapes?” Brad called after him.
“Sometime early in the morning,” he said. “We’re still organizing them.”
The door closed.
Although he’d never been bothered by claustrophobia Brad felt cramped in the small space. Seeing no hooks or coat hangers, he hung the coat that he’d retrieved from Dr. Dubei’s autopsy suite from a corner of the metal shelving. Under one of the shelves he found a five gallon jug of water for use in a water cooler, and rolled it in place to prop open the door. The desk chair faced the door, so he had a view of the hallway and wouldn’t feel imprisoned.
He took a seat and powered on the computer, before turning his attention to the files. They were copies of medical records stamped CONFIDENTIAL in red ink. Since he’d attended Michael Severn’s autopsy, he opened that file first, not sure exactly what he was looking for.
That they were dealing with a serial killer was apparent, but determining his or her motivation was crucial to solving the case. He’d seen stories of hospital nurses who suddenly decided to play god and determine which patients should live and which should die. If that were the case, then Sharon’s observations of the nursing staff would be critical. He consulted his watch. It had been about a half-hour since he’d left Sharon behind in the emergency room, and he figured she’d already been transported to a room on the seventh floor.
He opened a fresh page in his notebook and went through each file noting the name, age, and address of each of the transplant patients, including Dennis Ayers who had survived his attack.
The medical notes meant little to him. Brad smiled as he thought about how many times his mother said he should consider medical school. That training would have come in handy. He saw admitting dates, notes made by doctors during their rounds, and summaries of blood testing. Except for Joseph Esposito, the heart/lung transplant recipient, all of the patients seemed to be making a satisfactory recovery before they were attacked or killed. In the case of the kidney transplant patients, urine output was measured and steadily increased from the time of the surgery until the killer intervened.
The only similarity Brad could see among the victims was that they were all Caucasian. There were three men and one woman, ranging in age from 16 to 63, and they came from places as diverse as Reading, Cherry Hill, New Jersey and New Castle, Delaware.
Another idea crossed his mind; the killer had only one intended victim but wanted to make the crime look like the work of a serial killer. If he could determine a definitive link between a potential suspect and one of the victims, the rest of the case might fall into place.
Brad leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. He was tired, but not sleepy. Alan’s medical condition weighed on his mind. He clicked on Internet Explorer. He couldn’t remember the full name of the condition Alan had described, so he searched for GBM. Within seconds he found a link to braintumor.org and information about Glioblastoma Multiforme. Reading the material gave Brad little sense of optimism. Changes in behavior were one of the symptoms, which might explain Danita Harris’ concerns. Still, Alan had mounted a vigorous defense of his reported erratic behavior in the chapel, by saying that he was merely kicking out smokers.
Brad returned to the search engine and typed “Dr. Alan Fenimore.” A number of links appeared, but the one that interested him had been posted the previous November.
SURGEON’S WIFE SERIOUSLY INJURED
Marie Fenimore, of Haverford, PA, wife of noted Philadelphia heart surgeon Dr. Alan Fenimore, was critically injured in a two car crash Thursday night on Route 1 near Langhorne, PA, as she returned home from an arts advocacy workshop hosted by Citizens for the Arts in Pennsylvania. According to eyewitnesses, her 2009 BMW was rear-ended by a stolen Audi driven by David Myers, a twenty-two year old man from Monmouth, NJ. Mrs. Fenimore was airlifted to the University of Pennsylvania Medical Center’s trauma unit. UPMC spokesman declined to comment on the extent of her injuries, other than to say they were serious. The accident closed a half-mile stretch of Route 1 for more than three hours Thursday as police investigated and later cleared the wreckage.
“I was going northbound and had just passed the Exxon station when I saw a silver car streaking past me on the southbound lane,” Martin Scanlese of Penndel said. “I didn’t see the crash happen, but heard it. After I passed the wreckage, I was surprised that anyone got out of it alive.” The impact forced the BMW into a concrete abutment, while another man at the scene reported that the Audi went airborne after hitting Mrs. Fenimore’s car and flipped multiple times.
The driver of the stolen car was airlifted to the trauma center of the Robert Wood Johnson Hospital in New Brunswick, NJ with multiple injuries. The hospital has provided no word on his condition.
A police officer at the scene indicated that the driver of the Audi is likely to be charged once a full investigation is complete. Tests have been ordered to determine if alcohol was a factor.
Brad shook his head as he closed the link, thinking how senseless Marie’s death had been and wishing that she were still around to support Alan in his time of need.
Chapter Sixteen
2:10 a.m., Thursday, January 11th
I vowed to make the best of it, realizing that my roommate was there for a legitimate reason, and if she wanted to stay up all night and watch television, I’d just have to cope. Maybe the nursing staff could get me cotton balls for my ears and one of those eyeshades like they offer on transcontinental flights.
I elevated the bed slightly and plumped the pillow, tucking it under my head. I pulled the sheet and available blanket up to my shoulders for warmth. The curtains were closed at the window, and the radiator groaned to produce enough heat.
Nurse Iola T. came to see me shortly after I got settled in the bed. She seemed surprisingly gracious for two in the morning, as she brought me a pitcher of ice water and a plastic basin filled with mouthwash, toothpaste, a toothbrush, comb, mini bar of soap, and Kleenex.
“Mrs. Baker,” Iola called o
ut to my roommate, “where are your earphones? If you’re going to watch TV this late at night, you need to use the earphones.”
My roommate muted the sound on her TV, a blessed relief, and said, “What did you say?”
“Earphones,” Iola repeated, pointing at her ears. “Use them.” I liked that woman—no nonsense with a smile.
Iola drew the curtain between my bed and Mrs. Baker’s. “Thank you,” I mouthed, and she smiled and turned off the fluorescent lights as she left.
My roommate must have found her earphones, since I could no longer hear her TV, but the bluish glow from the screen kept the room brighter than I desired. I stretched and rolled toward the window hoping to get some sleep.
“What are you here for?”
The voice startled me, and I muttered, “Huh?” If I’d gotten any sleep it was half-a-wink.
“Why are you here?” She said again, and I realized it was the voice of my roommate.
“Tests,” I said.
“Me too,” she said.
I made audible yawning sounds for her benefit, hoping she’d leave me alone. Then I rolled over again and used the pillow to muffle any sound.
“I’m Althea Baker,” she said. So much for the pillow deadening sound.
I groaned. “I’m Sharon.” If she’d only let me sleep, I’d gladly tell her all about myself when I woke up.
“Are you from Philadelphia?” Mrs. Baker asked.
Okay. She wasn’t picking up on any of my subtle clues, and unless Brad wanted to investigate another murder, I had to get out of there. I decided to walk the halls, see what I could see, maybe doze in one of the lounges, and when I returned Mrs. Baker would be fast asleep.
I climbed out of bed, still wearing the non-slip socks they’d given me in the emergency room, padded in front of Mrs. Baker and said, “I’ll be back.” I noticed a walker next to her bed, and hoped that meant she wouldn’t be racing after me. I ventured into the hallway and closed the door behind.
Nightlights imbedded in the walls bounced back light from the polished surface of the floor. My room was in the North wing of the seventh floor; I wandered along the quiet corridor taking in the big picture. This hallway had the small sun porch near the nurses’ station. At the end of the hall I spotted an exit sign above a door that lead to a stairwell. Opposite the stairwell was room 716. A hand-written sign taped to the door said, “Plumbing issues, do not use.” I had walked halfway back down the hall before I realized that had been the room where Michael Severn had died. And the ‘plumbing issues’ sign was Carlton’s way of avoiding labeling the room as a crime scene.
As I passed the nurses’ station Pedro Paez snored heavily, slumped in his chair. The counter was bathed in light. A clock on the wall behind the desk read 2:27 a.m. I trod lightly past their work station and turned the bend toward the West wing of the 7th floor. I chuckled to myself as I looked down the hall and saw how Lumpy had cordoned off the other two rooms on the floor where transplant patients had died. One had a food service cart parked directly in front of it, while the other was blocked by orange cones. I spotted a woman coming toward me, a tiny lady with white hair, a flannel robe tied in front. She was pushing a walker ahead of her about two inches per step. We had the hallway to ourselves, and nodded to each other as we passed. Beyond her I saw the windows at the end of the hall, which in the darkness reflected the dim light of the hallway back at me. I passed a janitor’s closet on my left, its door ajar, and one final patient room, before reaching the other sun porch; this one with windows on three sides.
I entered the cold room, pressed my forehead against the glass and cupped my hands around my eyes to block out any excess light. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the blackness outside. Ice crystals pelted the windows, and through the moisture clinging to the outside of the pane, I could see snow-capped roofs below me. Street lights reflected up from the urban canyons, and neon street signs in the distance added color—blue, yellow, red, and green—and an odd sense of festivity to the otherwise gray tones. Occasionally the bare bulb of a street lamp would reveal the full fury of the storm with its giant white flakes dropping at the rate of an inch or two an hour. I exhaled and the window fogged before me, blurring the image as if I had squinted.
I left the room and resumed walking, then paused in front of 723 where Barbara McCullough had died. In front of the door sat two Day Glo orange rubber cones and a sign reading: CONSTRUCTION – NO ADMITTANCE.
Did Carlton think his creative signage fooled anyone? Certainly not the nursing staff who understood the ruse.
“What are you doing out of your room?” I jumped at the sound of the woman’s voice, and turned to find Iola smiling at me.
“Honestly, my roommate wanted to talk. I hoped that if I stepped out for a few minutes she might fall asleep.”
“I suspected as much,” she said. “Aren’t you chilly with just that gown?”
“Yes.” I added, thinking how much I should reveal, “My admission was sudden. I never thought to bring a robe.”
“We might have something you could use,” Iola said, and scurried back to the nurses’ station.
I continued my leisurely walk, passed the lady with the walker again, and heard Iola say, “I see you’re keeping up with your exercises.”
“It’s the only way to stay young,” she replied. So true.
“Here, try this,” Iola said, handing me a pink chenille robe with blue and yellow flowers embroidered near the shoulders. I wondered where it came from, since it clearly wasn’t standard hospital issue.
“It might be a little big,” Iola said.
Thank you,” I said as I put it on, pulling the cloth belt tightly around the excess fabric.
Not my style, but it kept me warm. I hoped it wouldn’t be too long before I’d be back in my regular clothes.
As we stood in front of the nurses’ station, the elevator doors rumbled open. A woman stepped out, looked right, then left. Her reddish-brown hair was disheveled and the matching belt from her full-length gray wool coat dangled at her side. A cigarette hung at the left corner of her mouth, and she fumbled in her purse, possibly looking for a light.
Iola immediately said, “Ma’am, you can’t smoke in here.”
The woman took the cigarette out of her mouth and threw it into her purse. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” She shook her head, as if to clear it, and rubbed her left temple with her fingers.
“How can we help you?” Iola asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman paused and put the straps of her purse over her shoulder. I could see her coat was wet and glistened with ice crystals. “I’m here to see my sister,” she added.
“Visiting hours don’t start until 10 a.m.,” Iola explained. “And they’ve been restricted because we’re short-staffed due to the snow storm.”
“But I was here yesterday. I’m Eileen Henness.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Pedro was awake, standing at the counter, and paying attention to the unfolding scene.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come back later,” Iola said firmly.
I could see tears well in the woman’s eyes. “I can’t come back… I couldn’t even get home. I don’t live in Philadelphia.” She took a quick gasp of air. “I’ve been on the train most of the night because of the storm.”
Iola stepped toward the woman and put her hand on her arm to comfort her. “Maybe we can make an exception. Who is your sister?”
Eileen Henness wiped under her eyes with the back of her index finger. “Thank you. It’s Barbara… Barbara McCullough.”
Iola and Pedro exchanged glances.
I followed Iola as she grasped the woman’s arm and led her toward the nearby sun porch. At that hour of the night it wasn’t even a moon porch. Iola snapped on the overhead recessed lighting that bathed the room in a warm glow. “Have a seat, Ms. Henness.” Iola pointed to one of the vinyl covered sofas. The woman unbuttoned her coat and sank back into the cushions. I swi
tched on one of the table lamps. Iola looked at me and said, “I appreciate your concern, but we can handle it from here. You should return to your room.”
“It’s okay, I work here.” I fished out the lanyard with the ID Brad had given me and showed it to Iola. If she seemed surprised by that news, it didn’t show. I hoped she wouldn’t ask for details. Iola stared back at me and nodded, and I tucked the badge back under my gown.
Iola sat next to Ms. Henness with a Lord-why-me expression on her face before she said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your sister died yesterday afternoon.”
“What?” she shrieked, incredulous.
“Yes, unfortunately, she died. We thought you had been notified.”
The woman’s hands covered the front of her face. “I haven’t been home. I retrieved a message to call the hospital, but since I was on my way back here…” Her voice trailed off.
Pedro entered the room armed with an ammonia ampule and small packet of Kleenex.
“I don’t understand… she was doing well when I saw her yesterday… making good progress. Now you tell me she’s dead…” It was hard to tell where the word “dead” left off and sobbing began.
“We did everything we could,” Iola said, as though reciting from a script. “Our medical examiner is investigating the case.”
“An investigation,” the woman cried out, newly distressed. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”
At that moment, we heard a patient call coming into the nurses’ station. Pedro left the Kleenex and said, “I’ll get that. Crystal’s trying to get a nap and we haven’t seen Keith.” A few moments later, Pedro’s voice called out. “Iola, I need you.”
Iola glanced at Mrs. Henness and me.
“I’ll sit with her,” I volunteered, adding, “You’ve done all you can.”
“Thanks,” Iola said, then left the sun porch.
“Mrs. Henness, I’m Sharon Porter, a private investigator. I think my boss might be able to help you.”
