by Ray Flynt
Brad couldn’t top those sentiments and closed the file. He cleared his throat.
His cellphone rang, and Brad recognized Let It Be, the Beatles’ tune he’d assigned for calls from Sharon.
“Hi Sharon,” he answered.
“I’m on my way to the cafeteria. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay. Go ahead and grab a seat, I’ve got one more item here I need to check.”
She clicked off.
Back at the personnel records home page, he searched under departments for “Accounting.” Twelve names popped up, and Ken Fenimore’s was not among them. He tried again, this time searching for “Finance,” but nothing. Was it possible Ken had understated his role and that he had a larger job in the hospital’s administration? Brad searched for “Administration” and “Executive Office,” with no luck. Finally, he scribbled a note to check on Ken’s employment status.
Brad logged off the computer, and locked the door to his temporary office, then headed for the cafeteria.
Passing through the main lobby he heard faint strains of Mozart’s Symphony 40 in G minor, signaling a call from Nick Argostino.
Brad flipped open his phone. “Hey buddy, how’s it going?”
“Not as good as you,” Nick said, his voice sounding gravely and tired. “I hope you’ve got your feet propped in front of a roaring fireplace.”
“I’m still at the hospital.”
“Not what I heard.” Nick sounded irritated.
Brad thought Nick had been joking, but now realized he was serious.
“I’m on my way to the cafeteria right now to meet Sharon. If you don’t believe me, I’ll let you talk with her.”
Nick grunted. “Maybe my guy didn’t get his story straight.”
“The detective you promised to send over?”
“Yeah. Steve got there and asked for you. The guard in the lobby told him you’d left and then he called Carlton who came down to meet him. Lumpy escorted him up to the seventh floor, showed him a room that had been sealed off to preserve evidence and said the medical examiner hadn’t issued any rulings.”
Brad found himself clenching his free hand. That’s who Carlton had run off to meet when he was asking him about the interview with Harold Tangiere.
“You there?” Nick asked.
“Sorry,” Brad said, “Just smelling a rat. Let me call you back.”
For all the pledges of cooperation, somebody at Strickland didn’t want the police involved, and had withheld critical information about Crystal’s high profile involvement in another patient death. He vowed to check Ed Carlton’s personnel file.
Brad entered the cafeteria and spotted Sharon chatting up a storm with a young Asian woman who he recognized but forgotten from where. Still feeling stuffed from his big breakfast; Brad paid for an iced tea and joined Sharon at the table.
“Oh hi,” Sharon said, “You remember Kim Coulter from the autopsy?”
“Of course,” Brad said, silently thanking Sharon for reminding him of Kim’s name.
They were both finishing a lunch of spaghetti and meatballs, with saladthe cafeteria’s special for the day. Brad noticed that Sharon sipped from a bottle of water, and that her cup of hot spiced cider, not the most complementary beverage to spaghetti, remained untouched. Whether it was the food, getting off the seventh floor, or maybe breaking free of Mrs. Baker, Sharon seemed re-energized.
“Kim was just telling me that they finished the post-mortem on Mr. Esposito,” Sharon said.
“The body had already been arterially embalmed,” Kim explained, “but we were able to recover enough urine from the bladder to detect the presence of pancuronium bromide, a paralytic agent. Jamal thinks all of them were killed the same way.”
Brad noticed that she used the doctor’s first name. “Has Dr. Dubei issued a ruling on the cause of death in these cases?”
“I know he hasn’t finished his written report,” Kim said, “he needs information that I’m still working on. But he verbally notified the security chief of his findings and the hospital administrator.”
He had also alerted Brad, several hours earlier, of his findings in Michael Severn’s and Barbara McCullough’s deaths. But if Carlton knew, why the cavalier attitude and stonewalling the police?
“You know that for sure?” Brad asked.
Kim nodded.
He gripped his ice tea glass. It was time Danita Williams-Harris knew what was going on.
Brad turned to Sharon. “When you finish your cider, we’re paying a visit to the fourteenth floor.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Somebody hasn’t been feeding the turtle,” Brad said.
“Huh?”
“I’ll explain later.”
On the elevator ride, Brad recapped his concerns. As he did so, he found himself growing more agitated. Sleep deprivation was part of it, he knew, and he reminded himself to maintain his composure. Those intentions survived less than two minutes when faced with a bureaucratic standoff in Danita Williams-Harris’ office.
“May I help you?” Tony, the receptionist said.
Brad hadn’t exactly expected a ‘hey bro’ high-five, but the young man they met a day earlier acted like he didn’t know them.
“We’re here to see Ms. Harris, Tony,” Brad said.
Tony blinked at the use of his name, and looked directly at Brad. “Do you have an appointment?”
Strike two. Brad shook his head.
“If you have a number where I can reach you, I’d be happy to let you know when she can see you.”
Strike three. “Uh, no thanks. Come on Sharon.” Brad turned and charged for the doorway to Danita Williams-Harris’ private office.
The receptionist shouted after them, “She can’t be disturbed.”
Brad pushed on the handle and the door gave way. He stopped abruptly as he saw Ms. Harris on the white leather sofa in the embrace of Dr. Jamal Dubei; She’d kicked her shoes off, and her skirt had been pushed up. Jamal’s shirt was unbuttoned revealing a hairy chest, and his hand caressed her bare thigh as they kissed passionately.
Sharon shuddered to a halt next to him, her mouth gaping. The couple were so engrossed in their love making that they were oblivious to the intruders until the receptionist blurted out from the open doorway, “I’m sorry, Ms. Harris. I tried to stop them.”
The couple disengaged. Danita Harris smoothed her skirt and brought her hands up to check the state of her hair. Jamal re-buttoned his shirt as he said, “Mr. Frame, it’s not what you think.”
Neither of them could possibly know what Brad thought, since he could barely process the dozens of scenarios racing through his mind.
Danita Williams-Harris stood, and as she slipped her shoes back on, calmly announced, “We’re married.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
12:47 p.m., Thursday, January 11th
Brad glanced at Sharon. In spite of the embarrassing situation, he wanted them to stand their ground.
“It’s okay, Tony,” Danita Williams-Harris said, as she crossed behind her desk and took a seat. “Hold my calls, and close the door.”
Dr. Jamal Dubei remained on the leather sofa, where he finished buttoning and then tucked in his shirt.
“Please, Brad and Sharon, have a seat,” Harris said.
Brad sat in one of the upholstered arm chairs, and Sharon sat in the one next to him.
“Jamal and I met five years ago,” Harris continued, “when we worked together at the University of Maryland Medical Center in Baltimore, where I served as Deputy Administrator. UMMC is a much larger facility than Strickland, well known for it’s award-winning Shock Trauma Unit. My boss spent most of his time raising money, while I handled the day-to-day operations. Jamal was an up and coming pathologist, and we first ran into each other at the hospital’s cafeteria.” She glanced at Jamal, who nodded. “I thought he was quite handsome, but pictured him already married with a couple of kids. Since I’d had two failed marriages, I honestly wasn�
�t looking for another relationship. But he had different ideas.”
“I kept going back to the cafeteria at that same time every day,” Jamal said, “hoping to get a chance to see Danita again. It took at least three weeks until I found her. I didn’t want to lose the chance, so I invited her to dinner.”
“And I turned down his invitation,” Ms. Harris said.
Brad didn’t have any trouble believing they were married; they were completing each other’s sentences.
“It’s a long story,” she continued, “but we eventually started living together. My prior marriages—both lasted less than two years—soured me on the idea of another one.”
“When she got the job here,” Jamal said, “my world fell apart. I thought I’d lost her.”
Harris beamed as she looked at him. “In reality, moving to Philadelphia and being separated from Jamal convinced me how much I loved him. When an opening for a pathologist occurred here, I encouraged him to apply.”
“You were able to pull a few strings?” Brad asked.
“Absolutely not.” She sounded offended. “I never made one phone call.”
“In my culture,” Jamal added, “I would feel less than a man if she had secured the job on my behalf.”
Not just his culture, Brad thought.
“He moved in with me, and after we’d spent four years togetherlonger than my other marriages combinedwe were married last February.”
“So no one knows?” Sharon cut to the chase. Brad wondered if a threat to expose their secret would alter Ms. Harris’ judgment or affect her decision making. He imagined what their personnel records might look like, and whether a person with access could make the connection based on their home address?
“Tony knows. I don’t suppose it would make much difference now. I was new to my position, and the first woman administrator of this hospital, and I wanted to establish myself without wagging tongues.”
“Likewise,” Dubei said, “I didn’t want people to think I hadn’t earned my position.”
“And now the two of you know,” Harris said.
“We don’t have any reason to reveal your secret,” Brad began, “and God knows we didn’t come up here to spy on you. I wanted to talk with you because, in spite of your orders, Ed Carlton, and possibly others want to impede and/or cover up our investigation.”
“Why would he do that?” Harris asked.
“I don’t know,” Brad said, “but let me give you a few particulars.” Brad recounted his concerns about the lawsuit citing Crystal Himes’ negligence in a nursing home death, Carlton lying to a Philadelphia police detective about his presence at the hospital, and minimizing forensic data that points to three murders.
Turning to Dr. Dubei, Brad asked, “I understand you haven’t yet issued a formal report, but that you’re convinced that three patients were murdered.”
“I am.”
“When Carlton talked with the police detective, he used the technical explanation that no report had been issued, but conveniently left out the whole truth.”
Ms. Harris drew her arms across her chest and leaned back in her chair.
Thinking she might need more convincing, Brad added, “I was here yesterday when you instructed Carlton to put a guard on the seventh floor. He still hasn’t done it, instead relying on video surveillance.”
Sharon jumped in. “And Dennis Ayers, who narrowly escaped death at the hands of the killer, is a patient in the ICU, and he needs a guard.”
The fact that her direct order had been disobeyed seemed to stir Harris to action. She pressed the intercom button, and said, “Tony, get me Ed Carlton on the phone.”
“Yes, Ms. Harris.” His officious voice crackled on the intercom.
Dr. Dubei spoke, “I will have the official death certificates later this afternoon. They will list homicide as the cause of death, and the intravenous administration of pancuronium bromide and Propofol as the manner of death. I will personally contact the Philadelphia police department.”
Ms. Harris sighed. She knew the storm clouds were brewing.
“He’s not in his office,” Tony’s voice on the intercom filled the room.
“Call his cell. Have him paged. If you have to, go hunt for him.” She clicked off the button, and said, “If there weren’t two feet of snow on the ground, I’d suggest looking for him on the 11th street loading dock where he’d be having a cigarette.”
“Ms. Harris,” Tony’s voice sounded again, “Mr. Whitmore wants to see you.”
She looked at her watch. “Make an appointment for 3 p.m.”
“But he’s here right now… standing in front of my desk.” Whitmore’s voice could be heard through the intercom, saying “It’s urgent.”
Harris exhaled. “Alright, send him in, but let me know when you find Carlton.”
“Will do,” Tony signed off.
Seconds later the door to the office opened, and the public relations director strode in, saying, “We’ve got a problem.” Whitmore slowed his pace, as he became aware of the presence of Brad, Sharon, and Dr. Dubei. “I ah… I,” he stuttered, “Perhaps I should come back?”
“No. Have a seat, Larry. It’s been an afternoon for bad news,” she quipped. “Anything you have to say, just say it. You remember Brad Frame and his associate, Sharon Porter?”
Whitmore nodded in Brad’s direction, and then flashed Harris an I-thought-you-kicked-them-out-of-here-yesterday look. He wore a different, and if possible, uglier, tie than the previous day.
“There have been a few developments,” she said softly. “Why don’t you share your problem?”
“Actually, it’s… it’s ourproblem.“ Whitmore paced in front of her desk. “My office got a call, well, the switchboard got a call and referred it to my office. An anonymous call”
“For God’s sake, Larry,” Harris said, “sit down, and slow down.”
Whitmore glanced at available seating, and he hesitated, as if his usual chair was occupied, before sitting on the sofa next to Dr. Dubei. “Channel 10 news called.”
“Wait a minute.” Harris stopped him. “I thought you said there was an anonymous call?”
“I’m sorry.” Whitmore perched on the edge of his seat. “No.” He cleared his throat. “Debbie, the afternoon anchor from Channel 10 called and told me that theyhad received an anonymous call reporting that two patients had been murderedher exactwordsat Strickland Memorial Hospital. I told her that I had no such knowledge, but that I would get back to her.”
Brad and Ms. Harris exchanged glances. The way she responded would demonstrate her mettle as an administrator, and since Brad had moments earlier accused her security chief of engaging in a cover up, she already had a pretty good idea of Brad’s position.
Ms. Harris appeared ready to speak, when Whitmore continued. “A few minutes after the first call, Ed Carlton forwarded a call to me from Frank, the noon anchor on Channel 16. They’d also received a similar anonymous call. I told him I didn’t know anything, but reminded him that there were a lot of teenagers home from school. Their parents probably had the TV tuned to local news to monitor the storm, so the kids were bored, and I quoted Ben Franklin about idle hands being the devil’s playground. But I promised to call him back, if I heard otherwise.”
“That adage dates from Chaucer,” Brad corrected him, “not Ben Franklin.”
Whitmore sneered. “I’m sure Franklin uttered it once in his life. We’re in Philadelphia, and I like to quote Franklin.” Turning toward Harris, he continued, “I was about to head up here to see you when the news producer for Channel 5’s ‘News at Five’ called, and by now you know the drill, another anonymous call. And finally, KYW News Radio made the same inquiry.”
Dr. Dubei blurted out, “Oh, my God.”
“I know what I’d like to do.” Harris turned to Brad. “Do you have any questions for Mr. Whitmore?”
“Yesterday afternoon, you told us that you received anonymous calls regarding suspicious deaths.”
> “That’s right. I guess it was yesterday. It feels a lot longer ago.”
“Think carefully,” Brad said. “Did all of the media outlets report that the anonymous caller said ‘two murders’?”
Whitmore looked at the ceiling and silently moved his lips like he was replaying every call in his head. Finally, he said, “Yes, they did. But one of the callersI think it was the ABC affiliatealso mentioned an attempted murder.”
Sharon leaned close and whispered, “Dennis Ayers.”
What motivated the anonymous callers? Two had come the previous day from a husky voice directed at the PR director citing “suspicious deaths,” and four today to media outlets, all referring to two murders, and at least one referencing an attempted murder. The media calls were most likely not made by the murderer, Brad thought, since he would know that three people had been murdered, not two, nor would the murderer want to call attention to his failure to kill Dennis Ayers.
“Mr. Whitmore, do you know any of these media contacts well enough to call them back and ask a question?”
“I know them all,” he bragged. “The guy at KYW and I go back ten years or more.”
“Call him and find out if the anonymous caller was a man or a woman.”
Whitmore’s bravado disappeared. “They’re going to want something in return.”
So much for a ten-year relationship, Brad thought. A moment of uncomfortable silence followed, in which Whitmore glared at Brad.
Danita Harris broke the tension. “Tell them I’m holding a press conference at…” She glanced at her watch. “At 3 p.m., in the hospital’s main lobby, to address the rumors generated by anonymous phone calls. I’ll make a short statement and answer all their questions.”
Whitmore looked shocked. “What can you possibly tell them?”
“The truth,” she said, “for starters. We’ve had three murders at Strickland Memorial in the last thirty hours, and one attempted murder.”
Whitmore gasped for breath. “As your public relations director, I think that’s a crazy idea.”
