“Well, I don’t know who told you that, but I worked last night and I did cross-stitch the whole night long. Quiet as a mouse.”
Doug hung up the phone, again perplexed. Why the hell would Raskin lie about the epidural? The conclusion seemed inescapable, but Doug still didn’t want to believe it; it just seemed too bizarre. Already overwhelmed by the events of the recent days and blunted by the rigors of the call day, he just couldn’t complete the circuit. He was exhausted—he’d go put the epidural in, and then maybe he could catch a couple hours of sleep.
Raskin snuck into the surgeon’s lounge. Good—empty. No cases were going on. It would not be disastrous if anyone saw him—anyone but Landry. He would be incredibly suspicious.
He reasoned Landry must be asleep in the call-room; the door was shut. He pondered his course of action as he patted the special syringes he had brought from home. Should he sneak into the call-room and inject him? What if he was awake? He didn’t relish the thought of taking on Landry physically; he preferred to finesse it somehow. How shall I do this?
Just then the phone rang. Raskin jumped and realized how on edge he was. He went over to look at the phone and saw incoming Labor & Delivery on the caller ID. He noted this call was going to Landry’s call-room. He gently picked up the receiver and listened.
“Hello,” came Landry’s voice thick with sleep.
“Is this anesthesia?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry to bother you. I know it’s one-thirty, but Mrs. Concepcion’s hurting again. Could you come up and re-inject her epidural?”
“Yeah, sure,” Landry replied with resignation.
Perfect, Raskin thought as he hung up the phone. Ask and you shall fucking receive. The plan formed instantly in his mind. He quickly emptied his syringe into the full pot of coffee. He knew Landry was a sucker for a fresh pot and being the caffeine addict that he was, he’d almost certainly stop here before he went to OB.
He waited just long enough, hiding behind the OR scheduling desk to see the weary Landry emerge from his sleeping quarters and head for the lounge—not the most direct route to OB. He could only be heading there for one reason—the coffee. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
Raskin left silently and headed up the stairs to obstetrics, since he figured Landry would never make it.
It was a clear, moonless night; countless stars appeared frozen in the hard, black sky. Rusty zoomed down the Pennsylvania Turnpike passing the Downingtown interchange, halfway back to Harrisburg. He was listening to the eleven o’clock news on the radio when he heard: “ . . . the partially decomposed body of Melissa Draybeck was discovered today in her apartment. Neighbors became suspicious when they hadn’t seen her for a couple of days and began noticing a bad odor coming from her apartment. Police are saying she was strangled to death but aren’t revealing any details. They have no suspects at this time. . .”
Rusty recognized Melissa’s name, but didn’t make too much of the murder. Other thoughts occupied his mind. The Municipal Court had been mostly a waste of time. Rusty had only managed to find one bit of useful information. After hitting a deli and ordering several Philadelphia hoagies, Rusty had proceeded to the Center City Public Library; this had proved to be much more fruitful. After scanning hundreds of major local newspapers for accidents occurring within a specified time frame, he had finally struck oil. He relived the excitement. Although he had been sitting in the same uncomfortable chair for hours and his eyes had throbbed miserably with strain, he had suddenly sat erect and stared at the microfilm reader’s screen with rapt attention and shouted, “Eureka!” Things had finally begun to fall into place.
Two hours later, Rusty arrived back at his little apartment in Hershey. He was tired of fact-finding and glad to be home. He knew he should go to bed soon so he would be able to function tomorrow when he returned to Mercy. But first, he couldn’t resist the Philadelphia hoagie he had brought back with him. They were legendary after all, and three didn’t seem out of line for a long day. He sprawled on the sofa in his tiny living room, opened a Rolling Rock, and clicked on the TV. He had eaten about three-quarters of the sub and finished the beer when he decided to rest his eyes for a second.
Rusty was in and out of a fitful sleep when something on the news jolted him wide-awake. “ . . . to recap the top stories of the day—Local anesthesiologist Michael Carlucci was killed late last night when a tractor trailer collided with his vehicle on Route 283. State police spokesperson, Chip Zimmer, is saying it looks like Carlucci fell asleep at the wheel in the dangerous construction zone, precipitating the accident. Police are recommending extreme caution through the construction area and urging motorists to follow the reduced speed limits. Fines are doubled in the area, and speed-watch patrols have been beefed up.”
“Holy batshit!” Rusty shouted as he leapt off the sofa, scattering the remains of the hoagie.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Bryan Marshall checked the digital clock on his desk—1:00 a.m. Things were getting out of control. But he’d deal with it—he always had. Landry was on call tonight and Raskin said he’d take care of everything, but Marshall had his doubts about that. Raskin was acting increasingly bizarre; the stress must be too much. Probably not a good idea to trust him to get this right. In fact, he wondered whether he could trust him at all. Too much at stake.
Marshall sat behind his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and opened it. Leaning close, he used the key around his neck to unlock the metal box inside. He reached in and pulled out two gleaming revolvers. He held them lovingly, one in each hand, hefting them and feeling their reassuring weight. He checked to see that both were loaded; they were. He smiled—he had foreseen this eventuality.
Marshall tucked each gun into a different side-pocket of his long white coat. He reached down to close the metal box, but hesitated. He should be taking care of business, but he could never resist the folder with the pictures. God, he needed to get a grip on this. It would only take a couple of minutes, though. He slid several issues of Hustler magazine out of the way and pulled out a plain manila folder. He opened it and flipped through the stack of photographs. A close-up of Sharon DeCorso, circa 1974, looking particularly fetching, caught his attention. He leaned back in his chair and let the picture transport him twenty-four years into the past.
Summer is my downfall. Marshall sat at his desk, fingering some enlarged glossies. Do they have to wear such clothes? He was bemoaning the latest fashion trend of the mid-seventies—hot pants and halter-tops. His photographs showed several of the nursing students walking into the hospital in their abbreviated civilian garb. “It’s just not my fault,” he muttered, beginning to breathe hard. A large proportion of his photos were of one particular student, Sharon DeCorso, who was scheduled to meet with him momentarily. God, she’s a peach! What would she be wearing today?
Marshall paused to pat himself on the back; he had handpicked all the anesthesia students. He was a firm believer in the maxim, “knowledge is power” and prided himself on his extensive background checks of prospective students. There was always a long line of applicants eager to enter the lucrative ranks of nurse anesthesia. His selection criteria were simple really—female, young, intelligent, attractive, and most important, an exploitable weakness. Like taking candy from a baby.
Marshall knew he held all the aces today. No more screw-ups, like with Karen McCarthy. He had perfected his technique, honed his craft. Yesterday he had caught Sharon, red-handed, stealing cocaine. Today’s meeting had been scheduled to discuss this unfortunate occurrence.
He, of course, had known all about Miss DeCorso’s predilection for controlled substances. Her application mentioned several instances of altered narcotics records from her previous nursing job, but he had chosen to overlook these. Everyone deserved a second chance, right? Could he help it if someone had left some cocaine lying about last night? He certainly didn’t make her steal it.
There was a knock at the door. Marshall got up and opened it.
Marshall sat back in his chair, staring off into space, his heart pounding. Something was pulling him back to the present, but he resisted; the fun was just beginning. He continued to watch the scene of Sharon’s encounter play across his mind. He saw himself slamming his fists down on the desk just as he screamed the word “cocaine.” He saw her crumble before him and beg for mercy.
With a start, Marshall opened his eyes. He realized with fresh insight that this part, this euphoria of power, was just as delectable, perhaps more so, than what inevitably followed. This surprised him mildly, and he wondered where this had come from and why now, after all these years? The image of Sharon’s pretty face, twisted and littered with tears, triggered an even older memory. He saw a small, helpless boy crying, a large man looming over him with a leather belt clenched in his angry hands.
Marshall felt an unexpected twinge of pity for Sharon and the other women in these pictures. This surprised him even more. What the hell was going on? Was he going soft like Raskin? He quickly packed up the photos and shook his head to clear away these troubling thoughts. He put his hands back in his pockets and caressed the guns, drawing comfort from their cool, smooth, metallic surfaces.
Guilt had never been a big problem with him. Since an early age, Marshall had learned that the much larger, real concern in life was not getting caught. His father had taught him that lesson well. Guilt had too many supernatural or religious overtones—something he really didn’t go in for. Who cared if he did something wrong? In fact, if you removed some all-powerful God from the equation, there was no right or wrong—just rules and consequences.
That was Raskin’s problem. He suffered from a heavy load of guilt—his damned Catholic upbringing at work. Through the years, Marshall had carefully cultivated Raskin, molding him as necessary, always relying on the twin motivators of greed and guilt to prod him along. He remembered it had not always been an easy process; there had been a turning point. He recalled clearly their conversation after he had had his way, right here on this desk, with Miss DeCorso.
“So Bryan, you, uh, conducted another interview this morning?” Raskin said sarcastically. He was sitting in the same chair Sharon had occupied hours ago and Karen McCarthy had refused to sit in one year before that.
“An interim evaluation really, not an interview,” Marshall said matter-of-factly, pretending not to be ruffled by the question. “You know what I always say, Joe—a bird in the bush is worth two in the hand.” He slapped his knee and laughed heartily.
Raskin didn’t join in. “Oh, I see. Forgive my error—It’s just I can’t keep them all straight.”
He shot Raskin a burning glare. “Listen, Joe. That will be quite enough—”
“Will it?” Raskin was out of his seat now, stabbing the air with his finger. “Don’t you think you’re carrying this thing a bit too far? Have you no fucking self-control?” If the desk hadn’t been in the way, Raskin’s finger would have been tattooing his chest.
“Sit down!” Marshall hammered the desk with his fist. “I don’t need any lectures on morality from you. I know what I’m doing.”
“Look, I just don’t want any suspicions aroused, OK? We don’t want the police or the feds probing around here asking questions.” Raskin was obviously still hot, but must’ve realized it was not wise to anger him any further, and sank back into his chair.
“Look Joe, I said I’d handle it. I’ve got things under control. You worry about—shall we say—how neat and tidy the books are.”
Raskin looked hurt. “As long as we don’t trigger an audit, there’s no problem. If we do, we can shuffle things around quickly. It’ll work—Bart said he’d give the whole thing his seal of approval.”
“And you trust a freaking CPA?” Marshall said, shaking his head with disgust. “That little weasel.”
“Yeah, I do. He’s in over his head, too.”
“It better work. I don’t feel like going to the lockup for your bloody incompetence. What about Hinkson—any problem there?”
“Hinkson?”
“Yes, Hinkson. He’s too fucking righteous. Why’d we ever hire him?”
Raskin shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know—seemed OK at the time. You voted to make him a partner.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me. He fooled all of us.”
“Pickings were slim at the time, as I remember,” Raskin offered helpfully. He ran his fingers through his hair and appeared to weigh his words. “Listen, if Hinkson catches wind of any of our creative bookkeeping or your interviewing techniques, we’re screwed big time.”
“We’ve got to get rid or him,” Marshall said.
“On what grounds? He’s too damned honest?” Raskin moaned. He stood up and paced about the small office.
“Look Joe, you helped me write the blasted corporate bylaws. Don’t you remember?”
Raskin looked puzzled.
“We don’t need a reason,” he continued. “All it takes is a majority vote.”
“Will the others go along with it? It’s pretty nasty.”
“Of course they will, after I explain it to them,” Marshall said with conviction. “They won’t like it, but they’ll do it.”
“So we vote him out.” Raskin stopped pacing and looked at him. “When?”
“Next corporate meeting—I don’t think we should wait on this.”
“But, we need another guy,” Raskin whined. “This place is getting too damned busy.”
“No problem, Joe. We’ll take a graduating resident—these guys are much easier to control and keep in the dark. We’ll pay him peanuts and enroll him in the infamous five-year partnership track,” Marshall said with a laugh.
“Think we’ll find anyone?” Raskin asked.
“Sure. Peanuts will sound like a king’s ransom to these starving residents.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Raskin said. “Funny how fast you forget.”
“After three or four years, we’ll regretfully announce that it’s just not working out; we’re not quite as compatible as we thought—sorry old chap—no renewed contract, no partnership, no hard feelings.”
“You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you?” Raskin said. Understanding was dawning across his face.
“We save big on salary—but here’s the pièce de résistance—they don’t collect any retirement money because they’re not vested until after five years. Check the fine print.”
“You’re slime,” Raskin said, but his voice carried an unmistakable hint of admiration.
“So, I’ve been told.” Marshall stood up, walked over to Raskin, and put his arm around him. Then he continued in a lower voice, “Joe, the real money is in the bonus money—you know that. Think about it. The fewer partners we have, the bigger our slice of the pie.” Raskin’s eyes lit up, and an evil smile began to stretch across his face. “We can probably clear over a hundred thousand per man in bonus money this year.”
Raskin whistled and said, “You don’t say.” He was fully on board, now.
“Anyway, the process repeats itself with the next sucker and we dance our way into retirement—filthy rich retirement!”
“Amen, brother!”
“And remember, Joe, it’s like I always say—a women’s behind is under every successful man.”
This time, Raskin joined him in raucous laughter.
Bryan Marshall opened his eyes, stood up, and walked to the door. He was aware of the heavy loads in his pockets. He flicked off the light switch and locked the door behind him. His days of having his way with the nursing students were gone, but he still knew how to amuse himself. He patted his pockets as he headed down to the OR. Time to take care of business.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Doug entered the surgeon’s lounge and thought he was seeing a mirage—a pot of steaming coffee. My lucky day. He poured a cup and drank the
styrofoam flavored coffee as usual—in three hurried sips the vile tasting fluid was gone leaving a blackish residue inside of the cup.
Hospital coffee was notoriously bad. The coffee in the surgeon’s lounge at Mercy Hospital was no exception. It derived its unique aroma and taste from three separate factors. First, the ground coffee was the cheapest variety available. Second, the glass coffeepot used to brew the coffee had a black tarry substance coating the inside—the by-product of years of continuous service. The pot looked more at home in an oil refinery than in a hospital. Finally, the coffee frequently cooked on the burner for hours, especially at this time of night. Nobody seemed to mind that too much. You drank this coffee for its punch, and in this category, it scored very well, thank you. You didn’t drink this coffee to celebrate the moments of your life.
Doug barely noticed the funny, bitter, slightly metallic taste of his fourth cup of coffee of the day; he’d tasted worse from the venerable Bunn-o-matic. His first inkling that anything was wrong was a slight blurring of his otherwise sharp vision. He initially dismissed it as a symptom of overwork and fatigue, which wasn’t uncommon on a call night. However, the slightly out of focus vision quickly converted to double vision, which he couldn’t ignore. He shook his head several times, but the lounge continued to swim in double images. Differential diagnoses from his medical school days flowed unbidden into his mind—brain tumor, cerebral bleed, embolus, myasthenia gravis, multiple sclerosis, etc. Feeling suddenly very tired of standing, Doug sat down and tried to collect his thoughts. He was becoming noticeably weaker by the second.
Gotta keep cool—gotta think. Panic threatened to overwhelm him; all his training and experience under fire seemed useless. With great effort, he thrust the panic aside and forced himself to concentrate. His mind, functioning in overdrive, completed the necessary connections: blurred vision—double vision—weakness—muscle relaxant—coffee poisoned—not much time—wait, one last chance.
ADRENALINE: New 2013 edition Page 21
