Plan to Kill

by Gregg E. Brickman

  After making five columns on a piece of lined paper, Miki began tracking signatures. She made a list under her name first, then studied the chart, searching for the other names.

  Sanchez signed a report in the ER, signed the operative report, and signed a progress note every day Madeline was under his care.

  Dempsey wrote the anesthesia clearance, hand wrote a detailed summary of the surgical events that included Madeline's cardiac arrest, and signed a post-operative evaluation that ended with him signing off the case at the husband's request.

  Porter's and Ephraim's names appeared on every page of the ER record. Miki counted five signatures for Ephraim and four for Porter.

  Miki recalled the night as if it were yesterday. Walton, as a hospital employee, received extra attention. In fact, she and Porter conversed about his actions and explained them away as stress and lack of sleep. Was it the truth, she wondered. Or was Walton losing his grip even then?

  Miki studied her table, then the list of charts, knowing the only one fitting her criteria was Madeline's. Gentry and Walden were on good terms then—before their fallout over Madeline's pregnancy. Perhaps Gentry could shed some light on Walton's mental state at that time—if Gentry would talk to her. She remembered his mood at his daughter's funeral.

  Miki tidied the stack of charts and crept out the side door, making sure the lock was set after it clicked closed. Given the events of recent weeks, she didn't want Susan encountering any surprises.

  As she approached the nearest exit, she glimpsed a security guard's uniformed back. By his build, she knew it was Victor Zoller, her one-time friend. He was a company man, however, and she didn't want to come face-to-face with him.

  If he took his usual route, he'd make a quick swing through the pharmacy, then cross through the imaging departments to the near corridor. Then he'd hurry past where she stood and check administration. From there, he'd go by the Surgical Suite. She scooted past the elevator and stepped into the visitors' ladies room.

  Once in her hiding place, she realized her mistake. She'd never known him to check inside, but she couldn't see the hall either. If someone didn't interrupt him—as was often the case—he'd walk the main corridor in ten minutes.

  She decided to give him twenty. She went into the handicapped booth and perched on the edge of the commode seat. While she waited, her gaze returning to her watch every minute or so, she considered what she learned.

  She'd recognized several of the names of the patients as she reviewed the records and, after reviewing the notes, remembered their circumstances. Two of the husbands had been angry with Sanchez, but she didn't know of any threats or even of any further contact. Sanchez had been a big talker. If a patient's family threatened him, he would have talked about it, and he would have pressed charges. The detectives are climbing the wrong rope again, she thought.

  Walton acted steamed at first, very vocal, blaming Sanchez. Then he simmered down. She knew he received a settlement, but didn't see any evidence of it in his lifestyle. If anything, he seemed poorer. The hospital paid for Madeline's care. Maybe he put the settlement money away for Katie.

  Elsie retired early to help with Katie. Walton, no doubt, assisted with his mother's support, too. Elsie had a hard life, working as a nursing assistant for most of her years.

  When Miki got home, she planned to add Walton to James' suspect list—under Troicki, she reasoned, and above Sheila Kenton and Bob Porter.

  Twenty minutes later, she strolled into the corridor and into Victor Zoller. Her knees went weak. She maintained her balance by grabbing the safety rail bolted to the wall.

  "Miki Murphy. Fancy that. You're looking a bit pale. I hope you're not here to see the ER doc."

  "No, nothing like that. I—"

  "Listen, don't bother with a story. I saw you go into the office a few hours ago. Knew you'd leave before morning."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Well, friend, I'm going to escort you to your car, make sure you're safe in the parking lot. Then I'm going to finish my rounds."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. You didn't kill those people. I know that. The cops know that. So does administration."

  "Why then do the police keep pestering me? I've never spent so much time in a police station."

  "They're hitting on you because they need a suspect. Troicki, he's a friend of the mayor. I'll give you scalpels to forceps he put a bug in the mayor's ear."

  Miki laughed. "Victor, you've been hanging around the hospital too long." She took a breath. "Let's go then."

  "One thing." He touched her arm. "If one of my men found you, they'd have you in the hoosegow by now or locked in the office waiting for that young, lame-brained detective. We have strict orders that you're only allowed in public places and only during visiting hours only." He held the door for her. "Glad I found you during visiting hours."

  61

  Despite her late night, Miki awakened early, showered, then phoned Gentry while her coffee brewed. "Good morning, Al. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

  "No, it's fine. I was sitting here thinking I owe you an apology." His voice sounded mellow and comfortable. Familiar.

  "You're feeling better then?"

  "I suppose. I acted like an ass yesterday. I'm sorry."

  "You had a right."

  "There I disagree with you. You've done so much for John and me. I should have at least been cordial."

  "Apology accepted. We don't need to discuss it anymore."

  "Fair enough. Can I interest you in dinner later, maybe a couple of drinks first? Make it up to you."

  "Okay, but late. I've a lot to do today." Miki paused as she filled her cup and took a sip. "Which brings me to the reason I called." She told him about her hospital visit and her near capture by security.

  "Bastard, Zoller. He probably sicced his men on you."

  "Nah, it was Zoller who caught me, escorted me to my car, and told me not to pull the stunt again. He said everyone, including the police, knows I had nothing to do with the murders."

  She heard Gentry swallow and pictured him at his table, steaming mug in hand.

  He coughed. "I've been telling you that all along."

  "Anyway, I reviewed Madeline's chart."

  "Why?" His voice hardened. "Haven't you gotten in enough trouble with unauthorized medical record review?"

  "I had more reason than before. The detectives concentrated on the ones for discharged patients. I looked because Madeline's case fits the profile now—now that she is gone and her record closed. Got me to thinking about John and how angry he was then—and is now."

  "The man has a right—like you said about me earlier."

  "True. Do you think he's capable, angry enough to kill? It fits. What's your opinion? You knew him before Madeline's surgery. What's your sense about his mental state during the time you and he weren't speaking?"

  After a long moment, Gentry cleared his throat, swallowed, then coughed. "Ah . . . I could ask him."

  "Oh man, that doesn't sound like a good idea." She exhaled. She hadn't thought the conversation would be so difficult. "I'm not accusing him, understand. However, if what I'm suggesting is, in fact, true, throwing it in his face might not be wise."

  "I think your accusation is without merit, but I'm listening. Tell me how you arrived at your rather startling suggestion."

  "The murder victims are linked in a variety of ways." She reviewed the links, starting with the Miami hospital. "I was threatened, too, but I'm not linked to any of them outside the hospital, except Jo was my friend."

  "Go on." His voice took on an edge.

  "My name is everywhere on Madeline's chart along with the others. I was involved with her care in the ER and almost every day she was in critical care. You said John has a loose grip on reality. Do you think he's lost it all together?"

  "No, I don't think he has." His tone softened. "I know you don't agree, but I'll have a discussion with him, try to work around to the topic, see what he say
s. I'll let you know at dinner tonight."

  "It worries me—like putting a red flag in front of an already angry bull, but I'd like to close this line of thinking and move on. It would make me feel better to be sure he wasn't involved." Miki took a deep breath. "Leave me out of any conversation you have with him, please."

  "I will." Gentry paused. "I'll call you later, but plan on my picking you up around eight."

  "I'm looking forward to it. Goodbye for now." Miki hung up the phone and glanced up to see James watching her.

  She raised a brow. "What?"

  "Gentry?"

  "Yes."

  "You're going to dinner with Gentry? After his behavior yesterday?"

  "He said he was sorry."

  "What was he suppose to say? You contacted him, not the other way around. I didn't hear the phone ring."

  "You have a point. I'll see how he behaves tonight."

  "Well, at the very least, meet him at the restaurant. I'll take you and get you. Think of a viable reason for me to drive you."

  "Maybe I'll take my own car. I can be out and about and find it more convenient."

  "Yeah, and you don't have to tell him I'm outside waiting for you. I don't want you alone with him until we know he's not a killer."

  "Fair enough."

  "Dad's expecting us at his office in about an hour." James grabbed a bagel from a plastic bag on the counter, then filled a cup from the half-full pot. He held the bagel in the air. "Want one?"

  "Sure."

  An hour later, James and Miki stood in front of Dan Murphy's building waiting for him to arrive. Since he was compulsive about promptness, Miki knew he'd pull into the lot at nine o'clock. That was, perhaps, one of the few traits Miki and her ex shared. True to form, he arrived at the appointed time, not a minute early.

  "Hello, son." Dan put an arm around James' shoulder and squeezed, then frowned at Miki. "What's this about?" His voice was harsh.

  "Hello to you, too, Daniel."

  "Sorry, I've got a lot on my mind."

  James scowled. "Listen, can you two skip the posturing and sniping? It's annoying to watch, and God knows I watched enough of it over the years." He pointed to the door. "Let's go inside. We'll tell you what we want. You can give us the information or not, and then we'll be on our way. I'll see you later on my own."

  "Son, it's not about you. Your mother has a way of provoking the worst in me."

  Miki choked on a laugh. "Something in my throat. Excuse me."

  James glared at her, then pushed open the door and led the way to his father's desk. By the time Miki and Dan caught up, James sat across from Dan's empty chair. "Sit, please. Let's get this over with. Mom, go ahead."

  Miki ran through the connections she and James found among the murder victims. "I don't seem connected to them in any consistent way, but many are connected to Troicki."

  Dan rested his chin on a half-open hand, looking first indecisive, then thoughtful. "In all the years I've done sub-contractor work for Troicki, I can't say that I like the man. Ralph Troicki is an ambitious man, a rich man, a stubborn man, a talented man, and not a nice man. In fact, I believe he may be downright evil."

  "How so?" Miki said, leaning forward.

  "Maybe evil is too strong a word. Try rotten instead. He has political ambitions. Fine with me, but he's trying to buy his way to political success. He got a taste as a city councilman. Then when he lost his bid for mayor—you might remember he lost in a big way, under a hint of scandal about a building contract—he decided he wanted to skip local politics. He told me he intended to run for state office as part of his plan to win a seat in Congress."

  James frowned. "Just what we need, another weasel in Washington."

  "What's his motivation?" Miki said.

  "Power, prestige, money." Dan opened a file drawer and removed a folder. "He believes politics will sweeten his purse."

  "He's probably right. How does this relate to the issue at the hospital? I know several of the doctors invested with him on that failed building and lost a lot of money. There was talk he swindled them and never intended to build."

  "Seems accurate. The three dead physicians joined in a suit to force restitution and recruited other losing investors. They mounted a second effort to force his resignation from the board at the hospital, too. When he told me, he was over the edge about it. He saw it as a major insult to his integrity, a block to his ambitions."

  "Go figure," Miki said. "I can't imagine why he would think his integrity was in question."

  "Always the smart ass, aren't you?" Dan said.

  "Sorry. It seems ludicrous, that's all."

  "I'll agree with you there."

  "Any idea how Arlene Porter and I might tie in?"

  "No. Not for certain. I have a thought, though." Dan opened the folder to reveal a page of neat, hand-written notes. "He started getting tight with me about paying my draws, so I started taking notes, in the event I need leverage to get paid."

  James eyes grew round. "You were taking notes to blackmail him? Wow."

  "Fire with fire," Dan said. "Or in his case, spit with spit. Anyway, a couple of months ago, he came onto the job site at the hospital, fuming. He made a comment about a Jamaican bitch in the ER who overheard the doctors talking about their case against him."

  "Could have been Arlene Porter. I know she overheard some of the physicians talking." Miki considered the connection. "What did he say?"

  "She gave the doctors information about other investors."

  "How would she have names they didn't? Seems a stretch on Troicki's part."

  "He believed her husband, who works in the operating room at the hospital, repeated what he heard during a surgical procedure."

  "Yes, Bob Porter," Miki said.

  "Troicki had it in his head she was stirring the pot. He spoke to her about it, and she went off on him. Told him if he wanted her to keep her mouth shut, he'd have to make it worth her while."

  "Mom, wasn't it public information by then?"

  "Maybe not. Some of the physicians are free with their discussions in the privacy of a surgical suite. Sometimes, I think the staff becomes invisible to the surgeons, and it never occurs to them something could be repeated out of context."

  "I can see it happening." James shifted his weight.

  "Maybe." Miki was puzzled. "That still doesn't tie me in."

  "No." Dan paused, tapping his index finger on the desk. "Miki, don't take this wrong, but you attracted Troicki's interest years ago, while we were married. He made a couple of telling comments then. I ignored them because I needed the contracts. When we split and he divorced soon after, he told me he intended to have a little of what I'd left behind."

  "The son of a bitch. Exactly how did you respond?"

  "I told him it was your call. What could I do? I didn't have any say anymore."

  "I guess." Miki thought Troicki wasn't the only son of a bitch. "You could have warned me. Anything else?"

  "Yes, there is. It's not related to you directly, but Troicki is known to be rough with women who reject him. His ex-wife lived in a shelter for a long time after they divorced, and I know of a couple other ladies who threatened to have him arrested. If he comes on to you, and you reject him, be nice about it."

  Miki shuddered.

  62

  While James was at the deli buying sandwiches for lunch, Miki surfed the Internet for inspiration. She hoped to have an idea about her next step before he returned.

  Her thoughts drifted to Madeline Walton and the family's struggle with her long illness. She envisioned the frail young woman in her bed and her gaunt, doting husband in the chair. Wilma Carlson, the caring, attentive night nurse, entered Miki's mind's eye—Wilma, always nearby, always comforting John. What could Wilma know that Miki didn't?

  Miki clicked an icon, then searched the white pages for Carlson's number. She dialed and waited for an answer. "Wilma, this is Miki Murphy. Did I wake you?"

  "No, I haven't gone to bed yet." Afte
r a second of silence, Wilma continued. "I stopped and talked to Susan, and she said you were in the hospital last night. I know you've been poking around, and I've half expected to hear from you."

  "I'm surprised she told you."

  "Don't be. I saw the Mini Cooper in the front lot and asked. She didn't have much choice. I made a pain in the ass of myself." Carlson exhaled, her breath creating a turbulent sound as it passed over the mouthpiece.

  "I have some questions about John Walton."

  "Ah . . . John is my friend."

  "Yes. You've been very supportive of him." Miki chose her words with care. She'd often wondered what relationship Carlson and Walton had.

  "It goes beyond that. We've been to dinner a few times. I don't want to be disloyal."

  Miki struggled to delete an uncomfortable mental image of hefty, dark-skinned, matronly Carlson huddled in a cozy booth with tall, bony Walton. "Wilma, I'll be honest with you. I reviewed Madeline's chart because she fits the detectives' profile of a patient with a bad result and an unhappy family. All of the murdered people are in her chart." Miki sidetracked and told Carlson about the white cards with the quotes from the lord that police found with each body. "I'm prominent in Madeline's chart as well, and someone left one of those white cards in my apartment. Thank heavens I wasn't home."

  "I didn't know that."

  "Well, you're in that record. More than anyone. Please help me. I think John is involved. If so, I'm on his list, even though he has acted like a friend. You might be, too. Think about it."

  Silence.

  "Wilma?"

  "Ah. Let me start easy. You know Arlene Porter and I have a history, don't you?"

  "You mean you're a former Jackson Memorial employee, too? I didn't know."

  "More than just Jackson. Arlene and I came over from Jamaica together, went to school together, and worked on the same unit. We shared an apartment for a while—her lifestyle choices were an issue for me. We remained friends in a distant sort of way. Once she married Bob, I thought she decided to be straight, but she didn't. Guess it was just her way."

  "How does this relate, Wilma?"