Quinlan entered, shone his light around the perimeter, and then moved along the wall. Cavanaugh positioned herself opposite. Together, they advanced toward the covered body, moving their lights in front of them.
"All I see on this side are live roaches, dead roaches, a couple of dead, half-eaten rats, and a load of rat shit. It's everywhere." Quinlan stopped walking about three feet from the table.
"There are footprints in the dust here. Could be Zoller's."
Zoller approached carrying a tall gooseneck light and trailing an extension cord. "Watch the cord, it runs outside and across to the construction site." He positioned the light inside the door.
"I'm glad you're here." Miki moved aside for him to position the light. "They want to know about the footprints."
Zoller said, "I went straight to the table, backtracked to the cabinet over there." He pointed. "I retraced my steps to the table, did what I could do to protect the body, then followed my path to the door. Those prints belong to Walden." He motioned to an array of prints on the floor. "He chased the rats off the body so I could cover it. The prints there," he pointed to a trail leading to the body from another angle, "they don't belong to either of us. I didn't see them when we were here the first time."
"I see." Cavanaugh pointed to the white clog. "Does that belong to the victim?"
"Yes," Miki said. "It looks like what Arlene wears."
Cavanaugh picked up the shoe and inspected the bottom. "I don't see any prints matching it. Move the light a bit."
Zoller repositioned the lamp to illuminate another section of the floor. "Perhaps she was carried in unconscious. I don't see any either."
"Or dead. I hope she was dead." Miki's voice cracked. "If she wasn't, I can't imagine her horror."
Cavanaugh approached the body, grasped a corner of the tarp, and with a gentle tug, slid it to the floor, directing it toward Zoller's footprints and away from the unidentified ones. Three rats sat on Arlene's body. They continued eating.
Cavanaugh swung her light at them. They jumped, two of them clearing Arlene's head. The third tangled a hind foot in her braids. It hung there struggling and screeching. Quinlan clobbered it with his flashlight.
Cavanaugh leaned close to the body. "Maybe she was poisoned. I don't see any knife wounds or bullet holes. Broken neck, perhaps."
"Man, who can tell?" Quinlan gagged and swallowed. "See what the rats did to her."
"One of us has to wait here for crime scene. If we don't, the rats will be back at the body."
"Both of us need to wait here." Quinlan's beam tracked the perimeter of the room, revealing red-eyed rats with matching bloody snouts. "I'm not staying in here alone, and I don't think you will either."
Zoller stepped into the doorway. "Give me a minute." He left and returned about two minutes later with a couple of brooms. "This will help keep them at bay. I'll go wait for your people, then bring them through." He gave Cavanaugh a card with his phone number on it and left.
Miki followed him.
18
Early morning sunlight streamed through the vertical blinds. Despite having just come in from outside, the man squinted, then pulled the chain and blocked the morning. He needed to think about what happened, about what went wrong.
It was a stroke of luck he'd had the card with him, but he hadn't expected to use it so soon, and not under these circumstances. He'd lost control.
Arlene Porter deserved to die. No doubt about it. Had he thought about it, he would have put her name higher on his list. She'd been nice to him, making conversation. To think he had even considered letting her live. Then she'd shown she didn't understand anything, not anything at all.
He used the small key from the chain around his neck to open the middle desk drawer. After retrieving the remaining index cards, he laid them out, verifying the order, making adjustments. He thought his plan was good, but he had to work faster. He wanted credit for righting the wrong.
His timing would have to be perfect for the next one, and it would be a challenge to get the person alone. He envisioned a spectacular plan, better than Porter. Something sure to get the appropriate attention. A way to send the message and make everyone understand.
No problem. He'd do it. He was, after all, the lord.
19
Miki and Jo Ephraim waited until mid-morning before Detectives Cavanaugh and Quinlan arrived to talk to them.
When the detectives approached the counter in the ER, Miki said, "I'm sorry, I had no idea when you'd be done. I released the staff who worked last night. Most of them are due back at seven."
Deep frown lines creased Cavanaugh's face and forehead.
"If you want to see them earlier, they'll come in," Miki said. "We have to give them a little advance warning because they've gone home to sleep."
"That will have to do." Cavanaugh glanced in Quinlan's direction. "Get their addresses so we can talk with them at home." She returned her gaze to Miki. "Is there a place where we can meet with you two ladies in private?"
Miki said, "We can use the conference room next to the nursing office. It's close by. Dr. Ephraim, can you take them there, please? I'll call personnel, have them pull together the addresses, then join you." She watched them leave, then requested the information. She grabbed an abandoned cafeteria tray and four cups of coffee from the lounge along with the appropriate additives and followed.
Cavanaugh, her feet dangling, sat in the armchair at the round, glass-topped conference table. Quinlan, at her immediate right, leaned forward in his chair. Ephraim slouched across from Cavanaugh, looking tired and distraught. After serving the beverages, Miki dropped into the seat next to Ephraim.
Miki said, "I'm concerned no one from administration is here. Maybe I should tell them where we are."
"Not necessary," Quinlan said, his voice a quiet growl. "We already spent an hour with them."
"O… ka-ay." Miki drew the word into three distinct, musical syllables. She put her hands on her lap, determined not to speak again, unless spoken to.
Cavanaugh slid a bit forward in her chair, stopping when her feet touched the floor. "I presume you're both aware we're investigating the possibility Dr. Peter Sanchez's death was not from natural causes. Based on what we found at today's crime scene, we have reason to believe the doctor was murdered."
"I don't get the connection," Ephraim said.
"The medical examiner wanted to review the original of Sanchez's chart to see if there were any laboratory results or notes he didn't know about. He lives in the area, so he stopped by your patient records department."
"Unusual," Miki said, breaking her unspoken vow of silence.
"It is, in my understanding. He found a card with a partial quote from the New Testament—Romans," Cavanaugh said.
Ephraim grimaced. "One of our techs, John Walden, found the card in Sanchez's pocket when he prepared the body for removal. He put it in plastic and taped it to the chart."
"That's what Dr. Youngquist told me. It was a good decision on the part of the tech." Cavanaugh held her hand out to Quinlan who placed a plastic bag containing white paper in it. "We found this in Ms. Porter's pocket today." She laid the package on the table.
Both Miki and Ephraim leaned forward. The white index card read, avenge not yourselves, saith the lord.
"The two deaths are connected," Miki said, her voice a whisper. "I don't understand why they would be. It doesn't make sense to me."
"Or to me at the moment," Cavanaugh said, reaching for a pink-packaged sweetener and a foil packet of powdered creamer. "What kind of relationship did Ms. Porter have with Dr. Sanchez?"
"Just night-nurse to occasional-visiting-doctor relationship," Miki said. "Arlene never worked anything but nights here, didn't even pull extra shifts on days." Miki stared into space, remembering. "I asked her to do a weekend dayshift once. She flat out refused. She would work extra on other units at night and was one of the few nurses qualified to float to the post anesthesia care unit, but she was adamant about
not working days."
"Mrs. Murphy, did she say why she only wanted to work nights?" Quinlan raised a bushy eyebrow.
"From my experience, many of us prefer to stick with the night shift. We adjust our lives and sleep patterns around it. Arlene made some crack about daylight hurting her eyes whenever someone approached her about it."
Quinlan chuckled, a big, toothy smile appearing.
Ephraim cleared her throat. "She told me she didn't like the activity and confusion on the day shift."
Miki said, "I agree with that point of view. I'm career night shift as well, though I will work day shift if the other supervisors press me."
Cavanaugh asked, "Was there anything special about their relationship, Sanchez and Porter, I mean?"
"No," Ephraim said. "It wasn't even cordial, only coolly professional. Don't get me wrong. Peter was a good guy, but when he came into the ER, he was all business and didn't stay around to BS with the staff. He did what he had to do, then left. The staff, Arlene included, didn't warm to him. Didn't much like him on a personal level."
"Dr. Ephraim has a point," Miki said. "Most of the docs on ER call take a few moments to build relationships with the staff. It is the staff who make the going easy or hard for the doctors in the middle of the night. Sanchez didn't bother." She sipped from her cup.
Cavanaugh said, "As the chief of staff, Sanchez didn't try to build positive relationships?"
"No, ma'am." Ephraim looked annoyed. "As the chief, he didn't have to. The staff did everything they could to keep him happy—and away from administration with any complaints."
"Even break the rules?" Cavanaugh asked.
Miki wondered where Cavanaugh was going with that thought. "Yes, some would."
Cavanaugh waved her fingers in the air, seeming to encourage an expanded answer. When Miki remained quiet, Cavanaugh asked several more questions about the relationship between the victims, eliciting much the same responses from Miki and Dr. Ephraim. "Does any special case they worked on together come to mind?"
"No, none." Miki rubbed her brow. Her head hurt from lack of sleep. "Sanchez was an OB-GYN physician. Many of his calls were super-charged emotional situations, not just happy childbirth events. Women or girls injured during brutal rapes. Failed amateur abortions. Ruptured tubal pregnancies. Pelvic inflammatory disease. Venereal disease. Late term miscarriages. The list is long. People get the idea an OB-GYN practice is smacking tiny behinds and chewing pink and blue cigar-shaped bubble gum, but that's not true."
Quinlan said, "Is there a way to get a list of patients they worked on together?"
Miki scrunched her face, thinking. "I'll talk to medical records and see if they can pull cases based on both physician and nursing staff names. I doubt it though. We've only computerized the nursing documentation during the last few months. They might have to pull Sanchez's ER cases and then search for Arlene's name in the paper charts. That will take time, and you'll need a subpoena to get the information anyway."
Cavanaugh slid her card across the table to Miki. "Call me when you find out. We'll tailor the subpoena to the situation." She nodded to Quinlan.
"Will do." Miki took a business card from her pocket and laid it on the table. She took a moment to write on the back of the card, then pushed it toward Cavanaugh. "This is our risk manager, Edgar Oster. He's the one to contact and present the subpoena to. He works during regular business hours."
"Thank you." Cavanaugh picked up the card. "Ms. Murphy, what led you to believe a search for Ms. Porter was in order?"
Miki related the telephone call she received from Kimberly Hackim. "At first I wasn't concerned. Kimberly told me Arlene left the department on an errand. I assumed she stopped for a cigarette along the way. Sometimes she did sneak away if the ER was quiet. But I'm talking about fifteen or twenty minutes, not more than two hours."
"What's the big deal? She locked in the ER for the night?" Quinlan's voice had an edge.
Miki glared at Quinlan. "No sir," she huffed. "She was the charge nurse. Any charge nurse, or staff nurse for that matter, isn't at liberty to run around the building anytime they feel the urge. Their patient responsibilities come first. When she didn't return and security couldn't find her anywhere, I decided to look further."
Ephraim said, "Keep in mind by this time we'd called the upstairs nursing units, checked the possible places she could be on the first floor, and even called her home. She lives—lived—close by. I believe it was natural to assume something was amiss."
"If you say so." Quinlan took a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. "Ms. Murphy, what was your relationship with Ms. Porter?"
"We worked together. I was already a supervisor when she started in the ER. We got along. I found her cooperative. A time or two, when I took extra shifts in the ER, she and I worked together. She was a reasonable and responsible charge nurse."
"Did you see her outside the hospital? Share any interests?" Quinlan said.
"No. I have my life. I presume she had hers. I know she and her husband—Bob is his name—have two daughters. I met them a couple of times when she brought the girls in with her for a staff meeting or to get her paycheck—when we had paper paychecks. That's it."
"What was your relationship with Dr. Sanchez?"
"Professional. Friendly, I suppose. I did what I could to make his evening and night hospital visits run as smooth as possible. He said he appreciated my consideration."
Quinlan wrote in his notebook. He glanced toward Cavanaugh, who then asked many of the same questions of Ephraim.
Ephraim responded with similar answers, including the fact she knew Sanchez during both high school and her residency at Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami.
Cavanaugh glanced at Ephraim, then Miki. "Tell me, do you know of anybody who would want Arlene Porter dead? I mean, did she have enemies?"
Miki set her cup on the table and leaned forward. "Arlene could be hard to get along with. She had a bit of an attitude and sometimes a sharp manner. However, she was also very caring. She went out of her way to help the staff, adjust their schedules, distribute the overtime fairly, and she always helped care for the patients. No, she didn't have enemies at the hospital. People liked her or at least respected her."
Ephraim nodded agreement.
After asking a few follow-up questions, Cavanaugh said, "We found a pack of Marlboros in Porter's uniform pocket."
"Okay?" Miki said. "I don't smoke. Never went on a cigarette break with her. Don't know what she smoked. You'll have to ask the smokers."
"Not the point," Cavanaugh said. "We found a cigarette butt with what appears to be her color of lipstick on it in the construction area. Who would she have taken a break with? There were several other cigarettes next to hers, a filtered Camel, a Marlboro without lipstick, an unfiltered Camel, and several Salems. Ms. Murphy, do you know who smokes any of these brands?"
"No," Miki said. "Like I said, I don't hang around when people smoke. I leave."
Ephraim shook her head. "Same for me."
Cavanaugh referred to her notes. "The medical examiner inspected Porter's body before it was moved. He found an epinephrine syringe—a Bristojet—under her. He told me it was a preloaded syringe attached to a long needle—long enough to be stabbed through the chest into the heart. How available are they? I mean, can someone find one sitting around and grab it?"
Ephraim raised her eyebrows. "We don't use intracardiac epinephrine—it's also called adrenalin—with any regularity anymore. Other administration routes are as effective and present less chance of damaging tissue. Did your techs find the box?"
"Don't know that." Quinlan said. "I'll have to check. Why?"
"I'm wondering if the drug had expired. We keep a small supply locked on our crash carts. It's also available in the pharmacy. But it's not around everywhere like it once was. Maybe the person kept it tucked away for awhile."
20
John Walden hadn't seen Katie before she left for summer camp that morning
. By the time Miki Murphy told him he could leave, Katie was gone on the bus. He'd set his alarm to awaken him an hour before she came home.
He had suffered the sleep of the troubled, tossing fitfully, awakening for every revved engine and screeching stop of cars on the nearby main thoroughfare. He checked the clock and decided to stay in bed until the alarm. If he couldn't sleep, at least he could rest . . . and think.
He missed his few precious moments with his daughter, and he didn't talk to Madeline either. When he arrived in her room, Al Gentry, his father-in-law, was there, sitting and reading at the bedside with his feet on a chair.
Walden had avoided a confrontation. He glanced in at his wife as he slipped past the open door. Now he wished he was more of a man, forceful, demanding, in control. No. Madeline would be distressed to learn he and Gentry weren't getting along. He hadn't told her about his fight with her father or that Gentry blamed him for her condition.
He hauled himself out of bed, slipped into yesterday's boxer shorts, and peered through the blinds at the street beyond. Damn traffic, he thought. He'd work out how to get Katie into a better, safer neighborhood as soon as possible. Maybe he could find a house for his mother, Katie, and himself.
After dressing in wrinkled but clean scrubs, he walked to the corner. The bus would drop Katie there at half past four, and he wanted to be waiting. A few minutes later, the white, twenty-passenger van cornered onto the street. City by the Sea Day Camp's logo splashed across the side—a vision of waves, palms, and sunshine.
"Daddy," Katie squealed as she bounded from the camp bus, long blond hair flying.
Walden kissed Katie's cheek. "How was your day, sweetie?"
"Fine."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"I don't send you to camp to do nothing."
"Daddy." Katie laughed and stuck out her tongue. "You know what I mean. Nothing different. Mommy always knew what I meant."
Plan to Kill Page 6
