Plan to Kill

by Gregg E. Brickman

  Miki found her good friend in the compact dictation area behind the ER nursing station. Ephraim had wrapped her lab coat tight, as if chilled, and loosened her brown, curly hair from the usual ponytail. After getting a blanket from the warmer, Miki tapped on the doorjamb, then entered, closing the door behind her. "Jo, do you have a minute?"

  "Yeah, guess so." Ephraim shivered, pulling the coat tighter.

  "Thought you might want this." Miki handed Ephraim the soft blanket, catching the scent of perfume as she leaned close.

  "Thanks." She let the blanket fall open over her lap, then pulled it around her shoulders. "Damn, I feel old."

  "You're a year younger than me, girlfriend."

  "Six months, old woman. Just six months. I'll be forty-two in December." Ephraim groaned.

  Miki took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about Sanchez. I know he's been your friend since you came on staff."

  "Way longer. We attended high school together in Miami. He went to Duke for Medical School. I went to University of Miami. We both landed at Jackson for our residencies. We were close. Very close. He stayed in South Florida, and I opted for D.C. Then he helped recruit me for the ER group, so I came home." She sounded sad.

  "You never told me."

  Ephraim shrugged. "Irrelevant. Now he's gone. I'm having trouble getting my mind around it." She dabbed at her tears with a corner of the blanket.

  Miki opened the chart and pointed to a small index card encased in plastic and taped to the front page. "John Walden found this in Sanchez's pocket when he packed his belongings. I told him to stick it here so it wouldn't get lost."

  The card read, i will repay you, saith the lord.

  "Sanchez never struck me as religious. Was he?" Miki said.

  "Not when I knew him. Unless he became more involved after he married. He never said. We moved in different circles. You know what I mean?" Ephraim wiped a tear from her cheek. "The quote isn't accurate. It is, Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Romans 12:19. New Testament."

  Miki raised a brow. "I'm impressed. What do you think the note means?"

  "Who knows? Peter was Jewish. I can't see him typing a partial quote from Romans and carrying it around."

  "Maybe one of his patients with a sick sense of humor gave it to him." Miki flipped the chart closed and stuck it under her arm. "It's odd. You said you didn't think Sanchez has been sick, but he hasn't looked well to me. Let himself go a little. What do you think happened?"

  "I haven't a clue. I'm glad the ME took the case. He'll enlighten us. Sanchez's symptoms could come from the flu, a heart attack, even an infection. The lab results show his potassium level was low, and he was dehydrated. Lots of things going on."

  After opening the record, Miki pointed to the card. "This is strange, too. Sanchez's name—typed on the card."

  Ephraim examined the card. "I suppose so. It was obviously meant for him." She shrugged.

  "Anyway, what I came in to tell you is Leslie Anson wants to talk to us in the morning and get the facts firsthand."

  "If she must. Sheila's working. I'll run home, take care of the dogs, then be here before the muckety-mucks arrive to ask questions."

  6

  The ER was the busiest in northeast Broward County, and despite the ready availability of gowns and aprons, staff often required a mid-shift or end-of-shift clothing change. Nobody wanted to see patients or go home with body fluid stains on their clothing.

  Miki checked her watch, then detoured to the women's locker room. The harrowing twelve-hour shift left her Kelly-green scrubs blood and Betadine streaked, and now she had to wait for her administrator, Leslie Anson. Miki sorted through a stack of faded-blue cotton scrubs, selecting the first presentable small-sized set she found.

  After showering and dressing, Miki rolled her pants and top and stuffed them into a plastic bag. She arranged her short, curly blond hair around her oval face, patted on powder to mask her pale color, and applied lipstick to her full lips. Thus refreshed, she stuck the bag under her arm and hurried out. She needed to go to the nursing office and give report to the day shift supervisor before meeting Anson in the executive suite.

  Walden leaned against the pea-green tiled wall outside the locker-room door. He stepped forward, blocking her path.

  "What's up?" Miki glanced at her watch.

  "Do you want me to hang around? I can. No problem."

  "I don't see why. We were both there when Sanchez got sick and when he died. I'll fill Anson in. I'm sure you have things to do with Katie."

  "My mother takes her to Sunday School, then I go over and get her. I have time to stay."

  "It's okay. No reason for both of us to be tired. Get some sleep. Are you working tonight?"

  "Yes." A fleeting expression of annoyance or perhaps disappointment crossed Walden's bony face.

  "Clock out and go home."

  Walden gave her a stiff-necked nod.

  Miki watched him walk into the dull-gray main corridor, lean over the cluttered counter at the station, say a few words to the charge nurse, then exit the ER in the direction of the main elevators. If he followed his usual pattern, he would visit Madeline before going home. He lived a lonely life since his wife's botched surgery. Perhaps that explained his desire to be included in the debriefing.

  7

  Other than the activity generated by the ER, the hospital's weekend was quiet. Had it not been for the death of the chief of staff, perhaps it would have passed without benefit of a single top-level administrator stepping onto the premises.

  Miki pushed through the double doors into the plush waiting area serving the executive suite, her feet sinking into the thick carpet. Located on the ground floor of the new Foxworth Building, which housed the majority of inpatient services, the area was part of the first phase of construction of the new hospital. Miki used her master key to enter the suite itself, then sat in the dark leather and polished wood chair outside the nursing vice president's office. She glanced at her watch and longed to close her eyes in the low-level lighting, but it was almost eight, and Anson would arrive in a few minutes.

  Anson swept in, followed by the portly hospital president, Timothy Gardner, and the distinguished, elder vice chief of staff, Doctor Saul Irvin. They wore weekday attire, a pressed lab coat over a crisp white shirt and dark tie for Irvin, a tailored black suit and low-healed pumps for Anson, and navy pinstripes for Gardner.

  The saggy-jowled chairman of the board, Ralph Troicki, huffed in a moment later. He had abandoned his usual dark Armani suit for a yellow and green Polo shirt and Dockers.

  After surveying the group, Miki buttoned her lab jacket over her scrubs. "Morning, Leslie," she said to Anson. She greeted the president, vice chief, and board chairman with a nod to each.

  "We may as well use the conference room. You can tell us what happened and answer all of our questions at once," Anson said.

  "Here's hopes." Miki stood, stretched her back, and moved as directed, taking her time. Her muscles ached. Her head pounded. She wanted to go home. She needed sleep.

  "We'll be as fast as possible. I know you have to work tonight." Anson, a tasteful bottle-blond pushing retirement age, took a chair near the head of the huge mahogany table, gesturing to Miki to sit beside her. She patted Miki's hand. "This is hard for everyone. Just hang in there."

  "Thank you for waiting, Miki," Gardner said. He glanced toward the others, then sat across from the women. "Thank you for coming."

  "Let's get to the meat of this situation." Troiki eased into the seat at the head of the table, squaring his shoulders as he settled into the leather. "I don't have all day."

  Irvin glared at Troicki. "Other than Peter being a colleague, he was also my patient. I believe this topic deserves our time. I won't be rushed."

  "Sorry, Saul." Troicki scowled, then coughed, neglecting to cover his mouth. "That wasn't my intent."

  Irvin frowned, swive
ling his leather club chair to face Miki. "Why wasn't I called?"

  "I'd like to know the reason as well," Gardner said, bowing his head. "It's a tragedy our chief died in our ER without the attention of his own physician. How will I explain that? Whose fault was it?"

  Miki exhaled. Some things never changed. During the several months of Gardner's presidency, he had earned the reputation of a man willing to assign blame. She looked at Irvin. "We had no idea you were his physician until Mrs. Sanchez and her father came in. When I notified Leslie, she said she'd contact you, and I left her to it."

  "Peter didn't say anything?" Irvin said.

  Anson leaned forward. "Gentlemen, Miki's been here throughout the night. She's on our side, remember."

  Dr. Ephraim stepped in. "Peter was too busy being sick to give a history. Then he suffered a cardiac arrest." She detailed the events of the evening for the group. "The lab reported some abnormal values after the ME picked up the body. I faxed them over to Youngquist—he's the assigned medical examiner—a few minutes ago. I don't think we'll know what happened until we get the results of the post. Do you have any thoughts?" She dropped into a chair next to Irvin and turned the chair to face him.

  Irvin drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. "He hasn't been the same since that tragic case six months ago. Lots of self-flagellation."

  "Madeline Walden," Miki said.

  "Right. Walden. Peter's blood pressure was high, and as you might have noticed, he gained a considerable amount of weight over the last several months. His wife, Karen, called me last week. She worried about his being depressed, drinking too much, eating out of control, and ignoring her and the family."

  "He visited Madeline every morning and evening as if it were duty," Miki said.

  Gardner raised an eyebrow. "The Walden family didn't object?" He spun a finger in the air in a questioning gesture. "I mean, given the circumstances."

  "No," Anson said. "In fact, John Walden told me he approved of the visits. He thought it was important to her care even though Ruth Levine is the patient's attending now."

  "Levine didn't complain?" Troicki said.

  "Not a word. Walden signed a release granting Sanchez continuing access to the chart and to Madeline," Miki said. "Sanchez never wrote orders. He checked on her and talked with Walden. Levine told me she appreciated the help keeping Walden involved and informed."

  "I remember being surprised the family didn't file suit," Gardner said.

  "Why not?" Irvin looked thoughtful. "Peter never mentioned a suit, and I never asked. I assumed they would file in their own good time."

  Gardner said, "Sanchez accepted responsibility. His insurance company and the anesthesiologist's—Jamal Dempsey's—shared a modest settlement."

  "Dempsey, the son of a bitch." Troicki jumped in, his voice raised. "He's the cause of all this trouble. Incompetent bozo. He could have caused major problems for me—ah, for the hospital." His face turned purple. "He should have paid the whole damn settlement and more."

  Gardner grimaced and turned his eyes away from the chairman. "In any event, it was what Walden wanted, enough to provide for the daughter's care and education. Walden's an employee. He refused to involve the hospital beyond asking us to provide her care for as long as she lives without cost. It's important to him that she is here where he can visit before and after his shifts. The resolution worked to everyone's benefit and kept it out of the papers. Thank God."

  Miki shuddered, thinking it wasn't to Madeline's benefit, or Walden's, or Katie's, or the grandmother's. Disrupted and destroyed lives.

  8

  Walden sat in the recliner at Madeline's bedside. He wanted to tell her what had happened, but first he had to rest. Restore. Remember. He drifted, reliving the evening and rehearsing the words to describe the events. He knew she'd be interested. She always understood him, even if sometimes she didn't speak, but today was a big day. Maybe she'd talk to him today.

  He dozed. When he awoke, he went to the bathroom, showered and shaved, then changed into jeans and a tee shirt. He kept a few personal items in the closet and toted clothing, uniform, or scrubs, depending on the circumstances, in his battered backpack. He felt as if he lived in the one-hundred square-foot space with Madeline. It was home to his heart.

  Madeline should be alive, living at home, not here dead-alive. Odd. Sometimes he thought of Madeline as alive, but he knew she was dead. If she were living, she would get up and come home. Home with him and Katie to their house. Then he remembered he sold the house and moved to the apartment close to his mother.

  His mind drifted. No problem. They could live there until he found a new place. A better place, big and clean. He had the money for Katie's education, the money he got from the settlement with the doctors. He could use it. Madeline wouldn't care. She'd get her job back as a dispatcher for the police department, and they'd be okay money-wise.

  Katie with an angel face. His ten year-old daughter was thin and the tallest girl in her class. He envisioned Madeline braiding Katie's long, blond hair.

  Walden shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Then he closed the bathroom door and sat next to his wife, taking her hand in his.

  "Madeline, my sweet love, Dr. Sanchez won't be visiting you anymore."

  He leaned close to her, his ear near her open mouth.

  "He died. Remember when Miki and I took him away in the wheelchair last night? That was when it happened. Something with his heart, they said." He paused. "He was very attentive to you, visiting every day, overseeing your care. He would have come every day anyway, even if I hadn't made him as a part of the deal."

  He concentrated on Madeline's face, then nodded.

  "No, but I helped with the code, did the CPR, tried real hard to save him. Then I volunteered to clean his body and wrap him. Why not? I owed him. We both owed him."

  Wilma Carlson, a large, round registered nurse with skin the color of mocha latte, tapped on the door, then pushed it open. "John, I'd like to change Madeline's dressings now. Is that okay?"

  He checked his watch. Mother and Katie would be home from church in a few minutes. He'd have to hurry. "No problem. I was getting ready to leave anyway."

  He bent over Madeline and kissed her lips. "I'll be back later, sweetheart. Maybe I'll bring Katie this afternoon too. We'll see."

  As he left, he heard Carlson say, "I'm glad he sees you everyday and talks to you. He's a good man. Faithful. Maybe you can't hear a thing he says, but where there is the seed of hope, there can be the sprout of life as well."

  9

  Miki often ate breakfast in the hospital cafeteria on the second floor of the old facilities building. The meeting with the executives delayed her, and she didn't feel like making the trek through the temporary walkway or using the outside route and fighting the pouring rain. She also didn't want to answer the questions other diners would ask about Sanchez's death.

  She dug a compact umbrella from the bottom of her purse, slipped off her expensive white duty shoes, and slopped across the flooded parking lot to her car in stockinged feet. Then damning the calorie content, she headed to the closest fast-food drive-through and ordered breakfast—an egg, bacon, and cheese biscuit and a greasy paper-wrapped chunk of hash brown potatoes. Her refrigerator and cabinets were empty of breakfast foodstuffs, and she lacked the energy necessary to stop at the market.

  Miki munched the hash browns as she turned into the long driveway leading to Club Caprice's entry gate. After waiting for the magic eye to register her decal, she continued at ten miles per hour, negotiating six speed bumps and three corners to her covered parking space. The space cost her extra rent every month, but it was worth it. The merciless Florida sun baked the life out of a car's exterior and interior and turned it into an oven. Today's liquid sunshine was kind enough to stop, allowing her dry passage into her ground-floor apartment.

  Four years divorced, Miki rented the apartment when her son, James, now twenty-six, began his studies at the University of Florida. S
he used her share of the profits from the sale of the marital house to finance part of James' tuition. He also collected VA benefits from his stint in the Navy, but she wanted to help him get a good education to top off his military experience. With her generous night shift differential, she was able to afford her apartment, an almost new Mini Cooper S, and an occasional domestic vacation.

  Miki had decorated the apartment with bits and pieces of her former life, the teal-print sofa, James' bedroom and the spare room furniture, and a smattering of familiar pictures. She thought it worked with the dark laminate floors. Her favorite spot, as always, was the kitchen. Colorful baskets topped the light oak cabinets. She'd brightened the beige countertops with teal and mauve accessories. Her only furniture purchase, a round café table, completed the decor.

  As she entered the kitchen, the red flashing light on the answering machine caught her attention. She punched the button and James' smooth, deep voice flowed from the speaker. Damn, she thought, listening to the message while fighting a deep feeling of loss.

  "Mom, sorry I missed you. My flight leaves in a few minutes. I'll tag you by email as soon as I get to Italy." He gave the flight details, said, "Love you," and was gone.

  Today was the day he left for his internship. As an international business major, he needed to study abroad, and this summer was his first rotation. James was a grounded young man. She would have liked to tell him about her night.

  Miki made decaf to go with her reheated breakfast. Not bad, she thought as she bit into the stuffed biscuit. James, of course, wouldn't approve. She had restricted his fast food intake, and now, except for pizza, healthful eating seemed to be his way of life.

  As she sipped and chewed, she thought about Peter Sanchez and his sudden death. His symptoms seemed more like a drug reaction than a heart attack or a virus.