by Ray Flynt
Brad scanned the closet and saw a roll of white paper towels mounted on the left inside wall. He tugged a sheet from the roll, and folded the hair into the towel several times before putting the specimen in his jacket pocket.
If Amanda Witchert was right, and a man wearing coveralls and a blue knit cap had entered Michael Severn’s room on the morning he died, then he might have a hair that matched the killer’s.
Closing the closet door, Brad saw a man he didn’t know pushing the now empty gurney from Dennis Ayers’ room toward the bank of elevators. Iola T. apparently remained with the patient, so Brad sat in the sunroom at the end of the hall where he could watch and wait until he could pay a visit.
For an instant, sunlight streamed into the room, but the clouds quickly returned. Brad saw that the snow had stopped, and he could see high rise buildings a couple blocks away, a significant improvement from two hours earlier.
Iola T. left Ayers’ room and ambled back to the nurses’ station. Brad stood, waited another few seconds and headed for the teenager’s room. The Ayers’ case was another one on which Carlton had dropped the ball, waiting too long to secure the room where Brad believed the killer had tried to add Dennis to his list of victims. Following the incident, Brad had been told that the young man was unconscious, but based on the wide-eyed stare Dennis had given him in the hallway that was no longer the case.
Brad walked into the room and stood next to the patient’s bed. “Hi, I’m Brad Frame. Would you mind if I visited with you for a few minutes?”
The boy shook his head. Brad noticed a urine collection bag, about a third-full, hanging from the side of the bed; the urine had a pink cast, which suggested the presence of blood. But at least the urine output meant his transplanted kidney was still working, thank God. Glancing at the two IV bags, Brad saw that they were giving him a dextrose solution and prophylaxis, an antibiotic.
“How are you feeling, Dennis?”
“Okay.” After a pause, he asked, “Are you a doctor?’
“No.”
“Are you a shrink?”
Brad chuckled. “No, I’m not.”
Dennis grabbed the control and elevated himself in the bed. “You remind me of the shrink my mom sends me to.”
“I’m a consultant with the hospital, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Dennis’ eyelids fluttered. “What kind of questions?”
“I’d like to ask you about what happened yesterday afternoon, before they took you to the Intensive Care Unit.”
“Okay.”
Brad pulled a chair alongside the bed and sat. “You’ve been in the hospital for a couple of days, so you know what goes on with the doctors and nurses. Did anything unusual happen yesterday morning or early afternoon?”
Dennis never took his eyes off Brad, but his delay in responding made Brad wonder if he’d suffered brain damage from the time when he was in cardiac arrest.
“Yeah, I never got any lunch.”
Brad served up a quizzical look, hoping the young man would continue.
“I was asleep. When I woke up, this guy was fussing with those bags.” Dennis pointed at the IV bags. “I didn’t think he was a nurse.”
“Why’s that?”
“He wasn’t wearing scrubs, like the male nurses do. I asked the guy about my lunch, and he said my tray was out in the hall and he’d bring it to me, and that’s the last thing I remember.”
“Did you see what the guy looked like?”
“That old guy asked me the same question this morning.”
“Older than me?”
“Older ‘n my grampa.”
Carlton? Chalk up more information he’d withheld.
“I think I know who that might be, and I’m sorry for asking you twice in the same day, but did you see what the guy looked like?”
“Nah. He was mostly behind me, and I could only see the back of his head.”
“What color hair did he have?”
Dennis shrugged. “Don’t know. He wore a blue cap.”
Brad stood. “Did you get your lunch today?”
“Yeah, but any chance of getting ice cream?”
“I bet there is. I’ll speak with one of the nurses.”
Dennis stared past him, gazing out in the hallway. He pointed. “There’s gramps now.”
Brad turned and saw Ed Carlton arranging a chair next to the doorway to Ayers’ room. Bill, the young man he’d seen earlier monitoring video feeds at the security station, nodded in response to Carlton’s instructions and sat in the chair.
At that moment, Carlton saw Brad and stormed into the room, shouting, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Brad pointed at his watch. “Just monitoring how long it would take you to get a security guard on this floor.”
Carlton flashed his middle finger inches from Brad’s face.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
2:15 p.m., Thursday, January 11th
Shouts erupted from a nearby room, and Brad saw Pedro Paez backing out the doorway with his hands flung in the air.
“Fine.” Pedro waved his arms. “Don’t take your pills, but you might as well call your family and have them come get you, ‘cause the doctor’s not gonna let you stay.”
Brad glanced at the room number—704—Sharon’s former room. Mrs. Baker was up to her old tricks.
Pedro averted his gaze when he spotted Brad, and said, “Sorry about that.”
“I understand your frustration.”
“It’s just… I… I’ve been here for thirty-five hours straight.” Pedro scurried back to the nurses’ station.
Brad could identify. Pedro’s wasn’t the only case of frayed nerves. Brad had been at Strickland Memorial around the clock, too, and felt frustrated that he was no closer to finding the killer than when he’d arrived. In less than an hour the media would descend on the hospital for Danita Harris-Williams’ news conference, after which four million people in the Philadelphia area, trapped in their homes and glued to their TV’s because of the “hundred-year” snow storm, would learn that a serial killer was on the loose bumping off transplant patients.
Most of all, he hated to disappoint Alan.
Brad’s frown turned to a smile as he saw Sharon heading in his direction, a jaunty bounce in her step.
“You pegged Crystal right,” she whispered, as she sidled up to him. “She alerted the TV stations, hoping to get positive publicity for herself. I told her about the news conference,” Sharon continued. “I predict Crystal will mingle with the reporters itching to tell her story.”
Brad nodded. They were about to board an elevator when he spotted Pedro seated alone at the nurses’ station. “Hold up,” Brad said to Sharon.
He approached Pedro, who still looked sheepish. “Sorry about my outburst.”
“Not a problem,” Brad said. “If you have a minute, I’ve got a question on procedures that you could help me with.”
Pedro shrugged. “I’ll try.”
“When a doctor orders medication for a patient, how does it get from the hospital’s pharmacy up here to the floor?”
“The order is recorded on the patient’s chart,” Pedro explained, “and we phone in the prescription to the pharmacy on the second floor. Medications are delivered to the floor in a locked cart and kept back here.” Pedro hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Before our rounds we organize each patient’s medications.”
“What would happen if a nurse ordered a medication on her own?” Brad didn’t want Pedro to feel accused, so he intentionally used the female pronoun. “You know, like a tranquilizer or narcotic?”
Pedro’s eyes widened. “Only a doctor can order drugs. The signed order eventually gets delivered to the pharmacy, even if we call it in.”
Brad thought about the illegible doctors’ signatures he’d seen over the years, and wondered how rigorously they were checked. “The pharmacy double-checks?” he pressed.
“Oh, yes.” Pedro’s head bobbed. “Fo
r sure on controlled substances.”
“Thanks. By the way, I read that you donated a kidney to your sister. How’s she doing?”
“She’s okay,” Pedro said, with sadness in his voice. “They thought we were a good match, but unfortunately, the kidney rejected after about six weeks, and Anita’s back on dialysis.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It was a courageous thing you did giving up one of your kidneys.”
Pedro shrugged. “A no-brainer. She needed it, and I had a spare.”
Sharon flashed an impatient look.
“Is there anyone else you work with who’s had a family member get a transplant?” Brad asked.
Pedro cocked his head. “Hmmm. I don’t think so. If they had, I think they would have mentioned to me when I donated to Anita.”
“I was just curious. Thanks for your time.” Brad and Sharon boarded the next available elevator.
“What was that all about with Pedro?” Sharon asked, as the elevator shuddered to a stop on the 3rd floor.
“I keep thinking about the killer’s motivation,” Brad said, as he escorted Sharon to the tiny workspace Carlton had provided. “When I heard that Pedro had donated a kidney to his sister I wondered if the outcome was successful.”
“Since it wasn’t,” Sharon finished his thought for him, “you were concerned that he might have a motive to deprive other transplant patients of their success?”
Brad nodded. “That’s a little twisted, I know, but there’s seldom a good motive for murder.”
He offered Sharon the chair next to the desk.
Before sitting, Sharon asked, “You think there’s enough oxygen in here for both of us?”
Brad laughed and propped open the door with a jug of water. “That’s why I usually leave the door open.”
He powered on the computer, and as it sprang to life, he pulled up a simple spreadsheet. “Take a look at this.”
The spreadsheet contained the names, room number, transplanted organ, and time of death for Joseph Esposito, Michael Severn, Barbara McCullough, and the attack time for Dennis Ayers.
“Looks scary in black and white,” Sharon said, as she studied the chart.
“A twelve hour rampage, then the killer’s been dormant for the last twenty.”
“Maybe he—or she—has left the hospital?”
“Or maybe our presence is deterring another death. I feel better now that there’s a guard on Dennis Ayers. That’s one of the things gnawing at me about this case.”
“Only one?” Sharon snorted. “I can think of at least a dozen.”
Brad pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages. “I’ve got questions about Ken Fenimore, Alan’s son, for one.”
“What questions?”
“He works in the accounting department, and yet I can’t find any information about him in the hospital’s personnel records. Ken said his dad helped him land the job here at the hospital. But, when I’ve observed them together, they barely tolerate each other’s presence.”
“Alan hasn’t confided the news of his brain tumor either?”
“No. I get that. He thinks he’s going to spare Ken his pain.”
Sharon waffled her hand in the air.
“Unfortunately, Ken’s pain will come later,” Brad continued, “when Alan’s gone and Ken feels not only loss but a sense of betrayal.”
“I…” Sharon tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
He knew what was coming, and felt it was a good time to give her a moment to the memories of her father. Brad held up his finger, and lifted the phone on the desk from its cradle, then tapped the zero button. “Yes, could you connect me to human resources?”
Seconds later an unusually perky female voice answered.
“Hi. This is Brad Frame,” he said. “I’m consulting for the hospital, and I’ve had access to personnel records, but… Oh you know about that? Good. I can’t seem to find any information on Ken Fenimore in the accounting department. Is he an employee?”
“Hold on,” the woman said. The line fell silent. As he waited, Brad glanced at Sharon, and it looked as if her emotional blip was short-lived. “Mr. Frame,” the woman’s voice returned, “Mr. Fenimore works on a contract we have with Hansen and Associates, a local accounting firm. I can give you their number.”
“Thanks, that won’t be necessary. I appreciate your help.” Brad hung up the phone and turned to Sharon. “He’s here on a contract with a local CPA.”
He punctuated getting an answer to his question by drawing an X on that page of his notebook. “I’m sorry that I interrupted you earlier with my phone call. You were about to say?”
Sharon gave Brad a you-aren’t-fooling-me-buddy stare. They’d worked together for too long, and the simplest gesture often spoke volumes. “Oh yeah, thanks for the distraction. Maybe we ought to give Ken a heads-up about his father?”
“I’ve been weighing whether I should,” Brad admitted.
“Well, it’s not the same set of circumstances, but after my dad shot himself there was no end to the emotional recriminations I endured. Hell, I still deal with them.”
“I know,” Brad said.
“Dad left a message for me on my answering machine asking me to come over. He knew I’d be the one to find him. Dad trusted me with that. I guess he thought I could handle it.”
“You did.”
“For what it’s worth,” Sharon said, “I cast my vote for telling Ken about his father’s illness.”
Suddenly, Ed Carlton appeared in the doorway with a smirk on his face, as if he’d been eavesdropping on their conversation. He scowled and jabbed an accusing finger in Brad’s direction. “Don’t be asking questions about me around this hospital.”
Huh? Brad stared back at him.
“You’re only here because Ms. Harris wants you here,” Carlton snarled. “I don’t like you, and I suspect the feeling is mutual, but don’t you go asking about me.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were talking with that kid. Don’t do that again. You got that?” Carlton spat.
Brad could only imagine how browbeat poor Dennis Ayers felt after Carlton’s interrogation. “You got it wrong, Carlton. That kid, as you call him, who almost died on your watch, was telling me about information you elicited from him yesterday and didn’t share with me. You’re right. I don’t much like you. I find you arrogant and about ten years behind the times when it comes to security methods, but I guess I was wrong to figure that you cared about cooperating to find a killer.”
“I’m the security chief, and you’re nothing but an interloper.”
“Maybe I am. And in about an hour there’ll be a press conference, and everyone will know that the security chief at Strickland Memorial hasn’t been doing his job.”
If the message hit home, it didn’t register on Carlton’s face as he abruptly turned and marched down the hall.
“What a sweetheart!” Sharon said.
“I can’t worry about him. For Alan’s sake I’d like to solve this case and go home.”
Brad slid his tongue along the surface of his teeth, which felt gritty. He swallowed hard. “You have any chewing gum or mints?” he asked.
Sharon rummaged through her purse and a few seconds later dangled a cellophane wrapped green and white mint in Brad’s direction. “I picked this up at Luigi’s.”
“Great. Thanks.” Brad slipped the mint out of its packaging and popped it in his mouth.
She pulled an envelope out of her purse. “Whoops! I forgot I had this,” she said, handing it to him.
“What’s that?”
“The anonymous thank you note to the donor of Barbara McCullough’s liver. Her sister Eileen showed it to us, remember? Then she left it behind. I stuck it in my purse for safe keeping.”
Brad slid the card out of the envelope. A single pink rose adorned the front. A separate piece of paper fluttered out asking that the card be delivered to the hospital’s social worker, “�
�who would know what to do with it.”
Brad opened and read the card.
To Whom It May Concern: For your gift of life I will be forever grateful. Five months ago I thought my life was ending. After more than a year and a half of visits to doctors and hospitals, I was told that unless a donor organ became available, I faced death. I prepared myself, but at the same time I prayed for a miracle. Thanks to you, I’m facing life again. Please know that your family’s loss has brought a new spirit of hope to my life. God bless you!
“I don’t know about you, but it feels like three days ago that we talked with Barbara’s sister.”
“Yeah,” Sharon said, “How time flies when you’re having fun.”
Brad picked up the phone. “I think it’s time to find the social worker and deliver this.”
When they found him, Eric Waara, the social worker, looked like a man who’d been awakened from a sound sleep, possibly of several hours in duration. His pinstriped shirt was rumpled, eyes bloodshot, and blonde hair spiked—not in an intended way. His desk chair, with a corduroy coat draped over the back, was angled so a reclining person might prop their feet on the top of the desk. The windowless office had overhead fluorescent lighting that, if turned off, would plunge the space into pitch darkness, perfect for an afternoon nap. Brad envied the young man.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Brad said, after making introductions.
“No problem.” Eric squeaked. He coughed to clear his throat.
Brad handed Waara the note. “Barbara McCullough, who received a liver transplant, wrote this note of thanks to pass along to the family of the person who provided her new liver.”
Eric dropped the note on his desk without giving it a glance.
“I was wondering if you could give us any information on the donor,” Brad asked.
Eric rubbed the corner of an eye. “Who are you again?”
“I’m a consultant to the hospital,” Brad explained, “and this is my associate, Sharon Porter. If you’d like, you can confirm our status with Danita Williams-Harris.” Brad hated name dropping, but felt like he was running out of time. In spite of the security guard placed in front of Dennis Ayers’ room, Brad still feared for Dennis’ safety.
