by Ray Flynt
Brad turned his attention back to the monitor.
“See him drop his hand down just below the doorknob?” Brad said. “Watch and see if… there, the deadbolt just turned. Play it again, Len.”
They watched the same stretch of tape.
“Alright, I can’t see him withdrawing the key,” Brad said. “But look at his elbow… his arm comes back slightly and that’s probably when he puts the key in his pocket. Then he reaches for the knob, turns it, and pushes his right shoulder on the door to open it so his back is to the camera. Keep going, Len, in slow motion.”
Frame-by-frame the male figure on the TV screen moved, keeping his back to the camera. Slow speed detracted from the image quality, but they could still make out the man’s hand on the doorknob, and watched as he eased the door closed and moved sideways. Then, with his right hand, he lifted up on a section of the pharmacy counter. Brad hadn’t noticed the hinged portion earlier and realized the shadow cast by the wire basket had hid the split in the counter.
“Stop!” Brad yelled.
Len jumped.
“Sorry,” Brad said, “but can you run it backwards at that slow speed?”
“Sure,” Len said, pushing a button.
The man on the monitor now moved backward toward the door.
“Good,” Brad muttered. “Get ready to stop motion.”
Len’s thumb hovered over the pause button.
“Now,” Brad said. The image froze.
“Take a look at the picture on the wall,” Brad said.
Carlton cocked his head, and then said, “His name badge is reflected in the picture.”
Glass covering the dark matte gave a mirror-like quality to the reflection. Even though the image was black and white, it stood out as lighter in color than the scrubs the guy wore.
“Ed, any chance of getting a computer enhancement of this video frame?” Brad asked.
“Len here’s one of our computer experts,” Carlton said, draping his hand over the man’s shoulder. “Can you help us out, Len?”
Len ejected the disk, and said, “Follow me.”
Two doors down the hall he stepped into an office and put the disk in a computer’s DVD drive. As Brad and Carlton watched, he fast forwarded the video to the point where they had seen the reflected badge, and captured the image saving it in TIF format. Len’s fingers sped across keyboard, opened the PhotoShop program and imported the saved file. With the mouse he highlighted the name badge portion of the photo, before cropping it. Then working with the resized photo, Len used computerized filters to enhance the picture.
After one attempted scan an ominous error message filled the screen DANGER: LOSS OF PICTURE QUALITY DUE TO DITHERING. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO CONTINUE? “Shit,” he muttered, “that one always does that.” Then he clicked the “continue” button before anyone could object. With each successive scan the picture got clearer.
“I think I can see it,” Carlton said, showing a level of engagement Brad hadn’t seen. “N – O – T…,” Carlton recited the letters.
“Don’t forget,” Brad cautioned, “you’re looking at a mirror image.”
Carlton started over. “K. Then a space. B – L – A – N – T – O – N. Keith Blanton. I’m not surprised,” Carlton said. “I told ‘em they should’ve fired that son-of-a-bitch a year ago.”
Chapter Twenty
9:40 a.m., Thursday, January 11th
Brad stopped by Sharon’s room on the hospital’s seventh floor. She sat propped up in the bed with her arms folded in front of her. “Good morning,” he said in a booming voice.
“Shhhh,” she hissed, and gave him a cross look. Sharon aimed a thumb at her roommate’s bed. “Poor woman finally fell asleep. She’s been keeping me awake all night.”
A guttural wheeze escaped the gaping mouth of the woman in the neighboring bed.
“I thought that was the idea,” Brad whispered. “That you’d keep your eyes and ears open.”
Sharon shot daggers in his direction. “I can handle that by myself, thank you very much. I don't need the help of… of…” Sharon drew a circle with her finger next to her head and pointed at her roommate’s bed.
“I get the idea.” Brad glanced at the covered food tray in front of her. “Did you have breakfast?”
Sharon rolled her eyes. He’d raised another sore subject.
“Let’s not go there.”
“Okay. I’m running out of conversation. Next time I’ll bring flowers. I’m on my way to the Oncology Unit. Why don’t you catch a power nap, and I’ll come back shortly.”
“While you’re gone, see how much trouble it would be get me a private room?”
Brad suppressed a smile and waved as he backed into the hallway.
Brad felt like a robot on automatic pilot as he lumbered down the hall. In the dim light, the lobby furniture looked black rather than navy and he rubbed his eyes, fearing that sleep deprivation had begun to affect his vision. At least he hadn’t developed the personality of a snapping turtle, like Sharon. He gazed at the floor to ceiling windows. Snow had drifted halfway up outside them, stealing much of the natural light.
Bleary-eyed, he studied the hospital’s directory, and learned that Oncology was in the North annex accessible from the lobby via a second floor skywalk.
Brad boarded the elevator and punched the button for the second floor, where it shuddered to a stop and the doors groaned open. Brad exited, turning right and walking a few paces before spotting a directional sign for the North annex with the arrow pointing in the opposite direction. He reversed course and soon passed through automatic doors that led onto a glass-enclosed pedestrian bridge. A bracing chill jolted him. The baseboard heaters along the elevated corridor were no match for Mother Nature’s fury. Snow swirled outside, and wind whistled through invisible gaps between the windowpanes.
Brad paused and looked down, expecting to see a city street, but a small park with sculptures and barren trees pierced the blanket of white below him. He recognized the snow-mounded shapes of a birdbath and benches. On the opposite side, concrete columns with menacing tentacles of steel rebar rose from a huge hole in the ground. Danita Harris had talked about fundraising for the new addition, but no workmen swarmed the site this morning.
The chilled air refreshed him, and he felt wide-awake.
A young woman glared up at him from the receptionist’s desk in the empty waiting area outside Oncology. Her curly hair looked matted, as if she’d spent the night on a waiting room sofa. “All appointments are cancelled,” she announced, “due to the weather.”
Undeterred, Brad smiled at her. She’d assumed he was a patient, and he could only imagine how pissed off he’d be if he had risked life and limb to get there during the storm for a scheduled treatment, only to be told it was cancelled.
“Is Mrs. Levinson here?” Brad asked.
“Yes, but they’re not—”
Brad handed the receptionist his business card. “I’d like to speak with her.”
The young lady opened her mouth. “I don’t think…” she began. “Well, ah,” she stammered, as she took in the details on the card. “Let me see what I can do.” She stood up and hurried through a nearby door.
Moments later a woman wearing a white lab coat with “Levinson” and the initials AOCNS embroidered on the front greeted him. Brad suspected the initials stood for a specific nursing certification, and planned to ask Alan for the details.
“I’m Janet Levinson, Mr. Frame,” she said with a big smile. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to speak with you about Dr. Alan Fenimore.”
Her expression changed, and she eyed him warily.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Frame, but I can’t possibly…”
“I have a release form,” Brad interrupted, “signed by Dr. Fenimore.” He produced the form from his pocket.
She led him to a nearby consulting room, where they sat opposite one another at a narrow table. She was about his age, Brad figured, with brown
hair cut short and round chestnut-colored eyes. She had a tanned complexion, and he wondered if she regularly used a tanning bed.
“He told you about his condition?” she said, her voice tinged with sadness.
“Only the headline, not the whole story.”
“I’ve known Dr. Fenimore for fifteen years. He’s one of the finest doctors in this hospital. He’s a heart surgeon, you know?”
Brad nodded, sensing she had more to say.
“I was assigned to cardiac ICU when I first started working here, and I witnessed the care he gave to his patients and how devoted they were to him.”
“I’ve known Alan since our days in college together.” Brad knew a few stories that would tarnish the halo with which Mrs. Levinson had crowned Alan’s head.
A fusillade of ice crystals rattled against the window, drawing their attention.
“How long have you been on duty?” Brad asked after a moment.
“Since seven a.m. yesterday. I was able to sleep about four hours last evening in my office, and overnight I helped out in the neo-natal care unit. I talked to my husband about an hour ago. He’s an anesthesiologist at University of Pennsylvania Medical Center, and he’s running on catnaps. They had six emergency surgeries overnight, four involving accidents on the Schuylkill expressway. We’re both wishing his conference in Puerto Rico had been this week instead of last. Perhaps we could have gotten stranded in those eighty degree temperatures.”
People would be sharing stories about the storm for years Brad mused, like the monster storms in the 1950’s his father used to regale him with.
“I understand you gave Alan a radiation treatment yesterday morning?” he continued.
“Yes, I did.”
“Can you recall when and how long he was here?”
“Recall?” she said in disbelief. “I doubt it, but let me go get his chart.” Levinson excused herself.
Even though Alan had told Brad about his brain tumor, Brad’s conversation with the Oncology nurse brought the situation into focus. His friend of more than thirty years had only weeks to live. Brad thought about all the signs that he’d observed that Alan was not his usual self—the edginess, grousing at the least provocation, his pallor. He’d attributed Alan’s moodiness to Marie’s death, and never imagined this scenario. Danita Harris’ complaints about Alan hanging out in the chapel and coming late to meetings had sounded petty, but the edges of the puzzle were beginning to take shape. Brad had had a few shitty cards dealt to him too, like the kidnapping and subsequent murder of his mother and sister, but he’d worked through those life-altering events and emerged a stronger person. Brad wasn’t sure how he’d react or cope with news such as Alan had recently received.
The sound of a file folder slapping the table jolted him, and Brad realized his eyes had been closed.
Mrs. Levinson smiled at him. “It looks like you need to catch up on your sleep?” She opened the folder in front of her. “Everything I can tell you should be in here.”
Brad rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn. “Yeah. It’s ah… it’ll be good to get in my own bed once this storm is over.”
She studied the sheet of paper in front of her. “Alan’s treatment was scheduled for 9:30 a.m. yesterday. I can tell you that he is always prompt, and there is nothing here to suggest that yesterday was any different.” Looking up from the notes, she said, “Tamara Gibson prepped him for the procedure.”
“What’s involved in the prep work?”
She shrugged. “Not a lot, really. Getting the patient situated on the equipment and making sure they are comfortable. The chart indicates that I began his treatment at 9:47 a.m.”
“How long did it take?”
“Only a few minutes. We usually keep the patient here for an additional ten minutes just to monitor them in case there are any immediate side effects, like nausea. Dr. Fenimore doesn’t have an abundance of patience.” She laughed. “He usually wants to get out of here as soon as possible and back to work.”
“Alan… Dr. Fenimore didn’t have any adverse reactions?”
“Never. Or at least none that he let us see. Yesterday, he…” Mrs. Levinson gazed at the file. Another battery of ice crystals struck the window, sounding like a shotgun ricochet. “Will this storm never end?” she grumbled.
“You were about to talk about side effects that Alan experienced yesterday.”
“What? Oh, no. Dr. Fenimore seldom had serious side effects. He complained of constipation. We encourage the patients to keep well hydrated. The treatments affect each person differently. Diarrhea is a more common side effect, but he experienced the opposite. Radiation therapy for brain tumors can also cause hoarseness.”
“I’ve noticed that, and an occasional cough.”
She bobbed her head. “What was different yesterday was his talkative mood.”
“Hmm…” Brad murmured, hoping she’d elaborate.
“He asked about my family; probably the first time since we worked together. He specifically asked about my husband, and our two daughters. I was surprised that he remembered them. Connie, our youngest will graduate from high school this June, and Claire is in graduate school at Princeton Theological Seminary. Dr. Fenimore brightened when I spoke about Princeton. He’d gone to school there.”
“We were classmates,” Brad said.
“That’s right, you’ve known him for quite awhile, you said. Alan asked me how often I’d visited the campus. Well, Princeton is so close, but Claire is a rather independent sort, has her own car, and makes her way there without much help from her father or me. He seemed upset when I told him I’d never been there, and made me promise I’d visit. I reminded him that our daughter was not at the Princeton,” she made air quotes, “but at the neighboring theological seminary. ‘Close enough,’ he said, ‘You have to visit—this spring. It’s the prettiest time on campus.’”
Brad’s mind flashed back to a time when he and Alan were crossing the campus on a beautiful April day enroute to the tennis courts, taking in the fresh scent of spring blossoms and the vista of budding dogwood trees; the same year that Alan met Marie.
“It’s a beautiful campus,” Brad agreed. “Tell me… how many people here know about Dr. Fenimore’s condition?”
“How many know, or how many are supposed to know?”
Brad liked interviewing perceptive people.
“Dr. Anthony Clark,” she continued, “his oncologist knows, as well as the staff here on the unit. At Dr. Clark’s insistence, Dr. Fenimore agreed to inform Dr. Phandra, the chair of hospital’s medical Board.”
“What are the risks for his performance associated with the tumor and his treatment?”
“That’s an excellent question, and one that Dr. Clark and the team here have discussed. We know quite a bit about tumors—much more than when I first got my certification eight years ago. In the short term, the treatment can often be more debilitating than the tumor. Other than specific side effects, like the constipation or diarrhea I mentioned earlier, it causes fatigue. Although Dr. Fenimore manages to push on like the Energizer Bunny.”
Brad smiled.
“I can’t speak for Dr. Clark, but if I were guessing, I think his feeling is that Dr. Fenimore’s role at the hospital is mostly administrative. He hasn’t performed surgery in several years, or I’m sure they would have restricted him from providing direct patient care.”
Brad chose not to mention Alan’s weather-related assignment in the emergency room.
The fluorescent light above them flickered. “Channel 5 weather said the storm won’t let up until tomorrow morning,” Levinson volunteered.
“Can you tell me about his prognosis?”
She glanced at the folder in front of her and exhaled. “Dr. Fenimore’s tumor is a GBM—Glioblastoma multiforme—located in the brainstem. Surgery in his case is not an option. The purpose of the treatments is palliative; delaying the effects of the cancer by containing the size of the tumor. As it grows, there can be progressive head
aches, an altered form of consciousness, and there may be weakness in one side of his body coupled with contralateral cranial nerve palsy. Unfortunately, we’re already starting to see a few of those symptoms.”
She must have seen the distress on Brad’s face, since she added, “I’m sorry to share such unhappy news.”
No less sorry than he was to hear it. He re-evaluated Alan’s change in demeanor through the filter of her new information. “I appreciate your candor.”
The overhead light flashed off, and in the distance Brad heard a generator whir into action. A wall-mounted backup light came to life.
Mrs. Levinson stirred in her seat. “It’s going to be a very difficult day if we can’t maintain power.”
“I have one more question. During his treatment yesterday, Alan said he received a phone message. Can you tell me about that?”
Her eyelids fluttered, as she searched her memory. “I don’t think… not during his treatment.”
Brad found it hard to believe that Alan had lied to him.
“Oh wait… afterward… while we were talking about the girls and Princeton. Yes, his cell phone rang.”
“Do you recall his end of the conversation?”
“I don’t… I can’t recall specifics. I remember he glanced at the screen and said, ‘I need to take this.’ He didn’t say very much, and afterward excused himself.”
“He didn’t say where he was going?”
“No. Not that I remember.”
Brad pushed back his chair. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Levinson.”
“I’m happy to do anything to help Dr. Fenimore.” They both stood.
Brad left the Oncology suite and entered the hallway, now lit only by emergency lights. He tried to digest the details of Alan’s condition, and felt overwhelmed by sadness. Tears welled in his eyes. If what the seventh floor nursing staff had told him was true, at least Alan had an alibi for the time of Michael Severn’s death. But the alibi didn’t alter the news of Alan’s death sentence, and Brad’s gloom matched that of the hallway.
Chapter Twenty-One
9:55 a.m., Thursday, January 11th
