Bone Pit: A Chilling Medical Suspense Thriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 3)

by Bette Golden Lamb

  Emma Goldmich should be right here.

  Kicking at the remaining research papers on the floor, he returned to his desk chair and brought up a separate file that gave the actual results of AZ-1166. Not the altered one the FDA received.

  After testing 1,200 subjects, in 151 neurogenic national centers, it was determined that the spread of Alzheimer’s could be stopped in Stage I participants using a well-tolerated, oral therapy. However, an unacceptably large number of subjects also experienced the acceleration of age-related diseases. A very small percentage even slid back into Alzheimer’s. (Note: See patient's question and answer sheets.)

  David had laid out the situation to Ethan when he hired him.

  The FDA would never allow them to continue on to Stage IV if the actual percentage of side effects to AZ-1166 participants was reported.

  The immediate problem was that it could take years of research to weed out the negative aging results. In that time, some other company might succeed where Zelint had failed. They would be the companies that would reap all the massive profits.

  Derek Kopek’s brain stared at him. Some of his blood was still caked on the floor near the head of the autopsy table.

  Ethan tried to block out the memories of Derek’s screams and struggles. No matter how much he drugged him, the man stayed wide awake until Ethan finally severed his brain stem to shut him up.

  I should never have agreed to hide the truth. Should never have agreed to juggle the numbers of participants with unacceptable side effects, make those statistics disappear.

  Ethan continued to pace around the room, wondering all the time why he ever got into this mess.

  It's not my fault. I didn’t lay down the rules. I wasn’t even here at the beginning. I didn’t create the pit. It wasn’t my idea to get rid of those subjects.

  He collapsed into his desk chair again.

  A scapegoat. That’s how he would end up. David would claim he knew nothing about what was going on at Comstock. He would claim that as far as he knew patients were getting all the necessary treatments for their side effects before being discharged.

  Ethan laid his head on his desk. He would have to cover his tracks or take the fall, possibly go to prison for the rest of his life. They might even execute him. The thought of that made his stomach drop.

  That’s not going to happen!

  Ethan started shaking. It was time to prepare for his escape.

  He had plenty of money—enough to live in South America for the rest of his life.

  Like the Nazis.

  Is that the way the scientific community would think of him? He looked around the room at his brain specimens … knew the answer.

  He brought up the copies of the real informed consents he’d deleted from all the patients’ charts. The regular consent forms and the question and answer sheets would have to be altered and placed back in their charts.

  He quickly read through one of the signed forms. There was hardly a mention of the possible age-related conditions the test drug could cause—heart disease, congestive heart failure, osteoporosis, blindness from cataracts, crippling arthritis, incapacitating strokes.

  He then programmed the computer to add all the specific potential side effects to the master consent form and pasted in the paragraph for every study participant, going back to the time the study was launched. It would now look as though each patient had really been informed about AZ-1166.

  Almost 1,200 participants. By the time he finished, he was exhausted.

  Ethan stood on a wooden chair and disconnected the smoke alarm. He had to burn several bags of letters stored in the corner of the lab—both patient letters that were never mailed; letters to patients that were never delivered. There were very few of the latter.

  It had always been in Zelint’s favor that families quickly lost interest in elderly Alzheimer’s patients when they left home. Comstock just made it even easier by eliminating all communications between them.

  He scooped up his hand-written laboratory notes that he’d scattered around the lab and started feeding them into a paper shredder.

  After emptying the shredded ribbons of paper into a deep lab sink, he set them on fire. When the flames started to die down, he tossed in all of the patient/family letters. The flames roared again.

  Soon everything was consumed.

  Perspiration ran down his face and his clothes were soaked. He held his shaking hands out in front of him.

  If he were to get away, he would have to figure out every possible avenue of discovery.

  He was not going to be anyone’s scapegoat.

  Chapter 32

  This brief encounter with Comstock had been enough of a trial balloon for Gina. She would never do travel nursing again, no matter how much Harry assured her that this wasn’t a typical assignment.

  Give it another chance?

  No way!

  Gina wasn’t cut out for this kind of nursing. She missed the hospital environment, missed the excitement of new concepts floating around her, missed the interchange of ideas with colleagues. And most of all, she missed the friends she’d made at Ridgewood Hospital; it was amazing how a supposedly cold, indifferent institution could turn into a second home. And San Francisco had become a safe haven away from New York … and Dominick.

  Harry had a different take on things.

  He’d been a travel nurse for too many years to just turn his back on any one job. His flawless record had always been a real plus; he could pick and choose almost any assignment he wanted. Not completing an assignment, especially without giving decent notice? Well, that would really screw things up for him.

  She’d allowed him to talk her into staying, but for the only reason that really meant anything—leaving her patients exposed to a danger that she couldn’t even pinpoint would gnaw at her long after she’d gone.

  Well, she’d suck it up, do her job, and find a way to protect these patients. Wasn’t that what nurses were supposed to do?

  Again, when she arrived on the unit, Delores didn’t bother to give her a patient status or any other kind of report; she silently passed the narcotic keys to Gina and walked away.

  She tried to avoid Rocky’s cruel, piercing eyes, eyes that shredded her clothes away, from neck to ankles. The worst thing was not that she felt naked, but that she was really scared of him. In the same way that she was scared of her ex-husband.

  She forced herself to stare Rocky down. “Why don’t you get your mind out of the gutter?” she said. “Move your ass and do your job! Get the vitals and start getting everyone ready for breakfast while I put together the pain medications. Can you do that?”

  He slowly rose from the desk. Standing, he pretended to enter notes in the computer.

  Why doesn’t Ethan toss him? Why do he and that clod, Pete get such special treatment?

  She tapped into the computer and brought up the patient census. Someone was missing.

  Derek Kopek. He was gone!

  She called out to Rocky, who had finally started down the hall. “What happened to Derek Kopek?”

  Rocky kept on walking. “He was transferred out.”

  Gina tried to bring up the Kopek’s file, but his name and everything about him had been deleted. The same thing had happened to Rhonda Jenkins, Harry’s patient.

  She grabbed the phone. “Harry, another patient is gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I can’t find any sign of him, or of what happened to him. All I got from Rocky was that he was supposedly transferred out.”

  “Do you think he died?”

  “I think the grim reaper would be a different kind of transfer. Wouldn’t that jerk Rocky just say that’s what happened?”

  “How ill was he?”

  Gina thought about Derek, pictured him barely able to breathe, yet still smoking. “Very sick. Stage IV, CHF.”

  “It sounds like he might have died. I’m really sorry, babe.”

  She hung up the phone, got back to setti
ng up her treatment tray. When everything was ready, she carried the tray from room to room, spending a few minutes with each patient. Most of them only wanted to talk about the constant pain they were having. Every single patient on the unit had an aura of defeat. It made Gina feel ill.

  When she got to Derek’s empty room, she stepped inside. There was nothing to indicate he’d ever been there other than the faint odor of cigarette smoke. She tiptoed through the room, trying to visualize Derek in the last place she’d seen him—sitting in the chair near the window.

  What happened to you, Derek?

  She walked to the chair, tried to conjure some kind of clue, something ethereal that might have been left behind.

  There was nothing.

  Gina made her way back toward the nurses’ station. Emma Goldmich was the last to receive her meds. As she walked to the bedside, Emma looked back at her with sunken eyes.

  All of these patients are suffering the death throes from every other aging disease.

  “Emma, you look exhausted. What’s the matter?”

  She turned away. “Nothing.”

  “You can talk to me.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, but the movement of the mattress made Emma wince with pain.

  Gina lifted up from the bed slowly. “Let’s give you your meds. It will help … at least for a little while.

  She gave Emma a shot and gently took her hand. “I know there’s something’s wrong. Please tell me. I promise I’ll try to help.”

  “Will you let me use your cell phone to call my daughter?”

  “I don’t have it with me, Emma. No sense carrying it around when there’s no reception up here in the mountains.”

  Gina could see Emma didn’t believe her. “I’ll go get it from my room, if you want. But you really can’t get a signal … and I’ve tried, believe me!”

  Emma shook her head, turned soulful eyes on Gina. “It doesn’t matter. My daughter doesn’t love me anymore.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I wish I were dead.”

  Gina could almost feel the suffering deeply etched into every line in Emma’s face. Gina reached for a tissue from the bedside table and gently wiped away her tears.

  “Why do you think your daughter doesn’t love you?”

  “I haven’t heard from her in three weeks … three weeks!”

  “Oh, Emma,” I’m so sorry.”

  * * * *

  It was lunch time and Gina couldn’t stand one more minute inside the building.

  Emma’s unhappiness stayed with her all morning. It was like heavy fingers pressing on her shoulders. When she walked out the front door, a stiff, blast of fresh air blew through her hair, making her feel better—it was enough to finally lighten her spirits.

  She strolled down the long driveway, but stayed exactly in the center of the road, remembering that the rattlesnakes hid in the crevices of these roadside rocks.

  Not this time, you monsters. I know you’re hiding in there.

  She tried to empty her mind; she didn’t want to think about anything. When she approached the end of the long driveway and Comstock was finally out of sight, she could finally breathe freely again.

  She was about to turn around when a jeep pulled into the driveway and stopped. Bold lettering on the driver’s door said: CAPITAL COURIERS.

  She smiled and waved at the driver.

  He had a worried look on his face and he stuck his head out of the window.

  “Hi, are you one of the nurses here?

  “Yep, unfortunately.”

  The courier gave her a weird look, then said, “I hate to ask you, but would you do me a favor and take the mail up to the administrator? I’m really way behind and it would be a big help.”

  Gina smiled. “Oh, sure. Glad to.”

  The man reached behind his seat and pulled out a small bundle of mail.

  “Is that all?” Gina asked.

  “Yeah, they never get much.” He stepped out of the Jeep and handed the mail to her. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  Gina grasped the bundle. “No, of course not.”

  He gave her a wide smile. “Thanks a million.” He jumped back into the vehicle, backed out onto the road, and was gone.

  Gina started back up the driveway. She fingered the corners of the letters—most looked like bills and were addressed to Ethan Dayton.

  Dull, boring.

  She’d been so busy with the mail, she walked right into a depression in the road; the mail flew into the air and scattered on the ground. In addition, it felt like she might have sprained her ankle.

  “Dammit!”

  She gingerly tested her foot; except for the pain, it seemed okay. She stood and scooped up all the pieces of mail. Among the bills to Ethan was a letter addressed to Emma Goldmich. The return address showed it was from Tuva Goldmich.

  “Yahoo!” Despite her injured ankle, she danced in a circle, jumped up and down, and then ran all the way back to the building.

  Chapter 33

  Gina was ecstatic. She actually had something tangible to offer Emma, something that could bring real hope—mail from her daughter. She shoved the letter deep into her pocket.

  When she pushed through the front door of the building and headed for Ethan’s office, she was breathless with excitement.

  His door was wide open. She started to walk in, but he looked up at her with stony eyes—it was like a slap in the face; it stopped her in her tracks. Stunned, she remained at the threshold waiting, but he stayed on the telephone and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

  Administrators!

  In Gina’s opinion, most health care executives lived in the upper stratosphere, not in the real world of patients with their complex emotional needs. And what they knew about nurses could be written on the thumbnail of a newborn.

  At least she and the administrator at Ridgewood Hospital had reached an uneasy truce when she’d tried unsuccessfully to help find his murdered niece. He’d even surprised her by asking her not to leave when she agreed to take on the travel assignment.

  But she was never going to come to terms with this man. There was something sinister about Ethan Dayton and his laboratory of floating brains.

  She stepped outside his office, leaned against the wall, the letter burning a hole in her pocket. She wouldn’t let Ethan’s attitude get her down. She was going to bring a spark of joy into Emma’s eyes. Gina could almost visualize the woman’s smile.

  It wasn’t enough.

  She was wasting her time at Comstock. Lack of staffing and minimal patient care left little room for any professional highs. Until the letter for Emma, job satisfaction was hovering near zip.

  She zeroed in on the buzz of Ethan’s conversation and tried to hear what he was saying. While she couldn’t make out his words, his tone of voice surprised her.

  Her experience told her that he rarely lost his cool, that his emotions were held intact with an iron grip. He was all about the business at hand.

  Today, he sounded erratic, his voice running the gamut of emotions, almost out of control.

  She checked her watch and knew if she didn’t get this over with soon, she would be late in getting back to the unit. She heard Ethan shout out, “That’s all, goddam it,” followed by the loud slam down of the phone.

  She moved from the wall and looked into his office.

  His gray eyes took her in. She reluctantly unclenched the bundle of mail she had pressed to her chest, and walked up to his desk.

  “The courier was in a rush so he asked me to drop off the mail.” She placed the small bundle on the edge and started to turn away.

  “Why you? The courier company has specific instructions that the mail and all other parcels are to be delivered to me and to me only.” Ethan’s voice was tight, demanding. He looked like he would have strangled her had she been close enough.

  “The driver said he was running late.”

  What’s up with this? Why the hassle? He actually looks worried. Worried? Could Comstock be keeping th
e patients’ mail from them?

  “What,” Ethan said, “were you doing out there in the first place?” His voice was menacing.

  “Hey, it was my lunch hour. I went for a walk.” He’d really pushed her I hate administrators button; her internal volcano begin to roil. “Don’t tell me I have to account for my off time, too.”

  With that, Gina turned and strolled out of his office without looking back. The letter remained in her pocket like a bomb ready to explode. When she was out of his sight, she could still feel his hostility reaching out, trying to encircle her before she got away.

  She could have used the stairs, but she deliberately waited for the elevator to take her one floor up to the unit. She wanted whoever was viewing, or reviewing, the security cameras to see her looking as casual and unconcerned as possible. She entered her ID card and rode the short distance, examining her fingernails all the way. She even faked a yawn.

  “You can go to lunch now,” she said to Rocky when she arrived back on the unit.

  He looked creepier than usual. Or was she imagining even more trouble from someone who already meant trouble by his mere existence?

  “I’ll go when I’m ready!”

  The lummox seemed to be hanging around a lot longer than usual when it was time for his break; much less his lunch time.

  “Well, get ready!” she said, hands on hips. He glared, turned around, and headed down the hallway. As soon as he was gone, she rushed off to Emma’s room and closed the door behind her.

  Emma lay prostrate, staring at the ceiling. She had ignored her lunch tray—tomato juice was coagulating on the sides of a glass, and a cheese sandwich was looking old and stale.

  Gina took a deep breath and blurted out, “Emma! I have a letter from your daughter.”

  Emma turned her head slowly and looked at Gina; her eyes went from sad to just the hint of sparkle; she smiled tentatively. “You do?”

  “Yes! It’s from Tuva.”

  Emma began to cry, then sob. Deep moans shook her body.

  Gina’s throat was tight as she fought back her own tears. She stepped closer to the bed and held out the letter.