by Dea Poirier
Her face hardens into a mask. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” The words roll out of me, a dare.
She glares at me, assessing. Austin shifts next to me, crossing her legs and bracing herself. But just as I’m starting to think Vera won’t take the bait, she grabs her phone and starts to dial.
CHAPTER 7
Though we know that Dr. Munroe saw both victims right before their deaths, it’s not him that I have my sights on yet. No, I want to talk to the nurses who work with him. Despite her reluctance to help, Vera’s given up her office and started to track down witnesses for me. I’ve spoken to three nurses, none of whom know or saw anything useful. Though they all seemed nervous to answer my questions, all they’ve told me is that Dr. Munroe can be a little too flirty with some patients. But they wouldn’t expand on this for me and then stated that they have no real concerns. I get the distinct impression they’re not telling me everything. The main thing that stands out to me is that no one can remember seeing Dr. Munroe during the windows we believe both victims were killed in. Now that I’ve questioned the junior nurses, Vera’s sending up Nurse Jordan, since she worked with Dr. Munroe a few nights ago.
Nurse Jordan peeks her head in, her cropped black hair slightly wavy today. She offers me a tight smile that doesn’t show any of her teeth behind her bright-red lips. While I question this nurse, I send Austin to try to track down David. We’ll need the security footage for Asha’s stay. Though we’ve gone through all the footage from Melanie’s hospitalization, we didn’t find anything from near her room indicating who might have stolen her chart or if anyone managed to visit her that we weren’t aware of.
“Nurse Jordan, thank you for meeting with me again,” I say.
“Of course,” she says as she glances around the room.
“Take a seat?” I motion to the chair beside me that Vera brought in for us. She sits down but doesn’t speak, her eyes flashing between me and Austin, as if she’s not sure who to address.
“This is my partner, Officer Harleson,” I say, hoping to ease the cloud of tension that’s formed in the room.
Her body is so stiff in the chair that she looks incredibly uncomfortable. Her eyes crawl over the room, as if it’s the first time she’s been in here.
“Is it all right if I ask you a few questions about Dr. Munroe and two patients who were treated here?”
“Yeah, I’ll answer as best as I can,” she says, trying to sweep a strand of hair behind her ear, but it’s too short for that.
“What can you tell me about Asha Weber?” I ask as I pull my notepad from my back pocket.
“She came in a little less than two weeks ago for complications from a tonsillectomy. She was here about a week.”
“In your opinion, did she need to stay a week?” The nurses have had differing opinions so far, but since she’s a more senior nurse, I’m interested in her view. I would assume that a weeklong stay would be for something more serious. Especially since I know insurance companies try to force patients out as quickly as possible.
“She would have been fine to leave after a few days,” she says as she shakes her head. “But no, Dr. Munroe just had to keep her for more observation.” Annoyance is thick on her words. She drags out the word observation for emphasis.
“Can you tell me more about that? Does he do that often?” I would think it’d be noticed by management if he was routinely having patients stay longer than needed. I can’t imagine the headaches that would cause both from customer complaints and for billing. Staying at a hospital for a few extra days can cost thousands.
“Anytime he’s got a cute little patient like that, he has them stay longer so he can flirt with them. He’s always showing those girls way too much attention and practically ignoring all his other patients.” She crosses her legs and glances at the floor like she has more to say but is afraid to come out with it.
That alarms me, especially since it seems these victims have gone with their killer willingly. I could see them trusting a doctor. “Have you ever seen him be inappropriate with these patients?” I ask.
“Like touching them?” She shrugs. “I think he touches them more than he needs to. But he says he needs to, that it’s part of his job. He gives them exams”—she puts heavy emphasis on the word—“that they don’t need.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Pelvic exams for conditions that should never require such a thing. He’d always come up with some excuse or another as to why it was necessary.”
“So you’ve brought it up, then?”
She nods. “Brought it up with him and reported it. I told HR that I had concerns. Nothing was done. They don’t take it seriously. There are so few doctors willing to work in hospitals like this; they’ll never do anything about it.”
“Is there anything else? I just want to be sure I have a complete picture that might keep something like this from happening again,” I press. She’s got more to tell me; I know it. “How old, typically, are these patients?”
“The ones he gives the exams, what I’ve seen anyway, they’re all over eighteen,” she clarifies.
I jot down a few more notes. “Have any of these patients ever made a complaint about his advances or the unneeded exams?”
“To me? No. Formal complaints, not that I’m aware of. But I wouldn’t be involved in that,” she says, uncrossing her legs before recrossing them.
“Did he ever make any advances toward you or any of the other nurses that you know of?”
She scoffs. “No. The other nurses, I’ve heard rumors, but I didn’t know for sure. But he’s never tried anything like that with me.”
“Is there anything else you think would be helpful?”
“Just ask him about where he was when these girls disappeared. He has a nasty habit of disappearing.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
After the nurse leaves, I speak to two others, but only one hints at the flirtation by Dr. Munroe. I’ll need to speak to him again to see what I can get out of him. I grab a cup of coffee and ask Vera to track down Dr. Munroe for me. It’s already getting so late in the day; I’m concerned that he may have taken off. I glance toward the window. The sun glows on the horizon, bathing the snowy landscape in orange. The tips of the evergreen trees burn red, like bloody spearheads.
I sip my coffee back inside the sterile office, and Vera pops her head in. “Dr. Munroe is heading up here. But I’ve got to go home. Take as long as you need, though. We need to get this wrapped up.” She makes a little swirling motion with her hand, as if I wouldn’t know what she meant.
“Thanks,” I say. Her words ring hollow. Because I know she doesn’t mean she wants this wrapped up for the sake of the patients. No, she wants this wrapped up for the sake of business. If people find out that patients at the medical center are dying suspiciously, that’ll add a fog of fear around here that won’t be lifted for decades.
“Detective Calderwood, good to see you again,” Dr. Munroe says as he strides into the office. He’s got a wide grin, displaying the dimples on either side of his mouth. His blue eyes match the scrubs he’s got on. That grin, his demeanor, could charm a cobra, but to me, it screams Bundy.
“Please, take a seat.” I motion toward the chair across from me.
He chuckles. “I’m having flashbacks of being called into the principal’s office,” he says as he sits down.
“Get into trouble a lot as a kid?” I ask, and his smile falters almost imperceptibly, but it’s back to full strength a beat later, like a flickering light bulb.
“Oh, you know,” he says, shrugging off the question entirely.
I do know. I got into plenty of trouble after Rachel died. But something tells me my trouble and his are worlds apart.
“So I’m not sure if you heard—” I start.
“Yeah, it’s awful,” he says, interrupting me. But that’s just fine. I’m more than happy to give him enough rope to hang himself. “I can’t believe another p
oor girl died.”
I sit silent, allowing him to continue. I want him to lay it all out for me. He goes on for a few minutes about how lovely they both were, special girls who didn’t deserve anything like this. Then his eyes meet mine again.
“What do you think happened to them?” he asks, and I know the tactic. He’s trying to shift the power in the room. If he’s asking questions, he’s in control.
“What do you mean?” I ask. I want him to be far more specific. I want to know what he knows.
“Have you figured out how they died?”
My blood turns to ice at the question. Because that’s not a question someone would typically ask.
“What makes you think we don’t know the cause of death?” He’s not going to shift the power in this room, and he’s not going to get information from me.
He’s silent for a long moment, too long. “I just figured we would have heard something by now if you knew.”
Wrong answer. This whole conversation with Dr. Munroe has rubbed me the wrong way. There’s something in his eyes. A knowing.
“What can you tell me about Asha’s treatment?”
He clears his throat and rests his right elbow on the armrest, then leans his whole body to that side as he crosses his legs. “Asha had a routine complication after a tonsillectomy. If you eat certain foods too soon after the procedure, it can make the back of the throat hemorrhage. That’s what happened in her case. She presented in the ER with severe bleeding. We cauterized the wound, then held her for observation to ensure the wound didn’t reopen. There were also concerns she was developing an infection. She had elevated white blood cell levels.”
I glance at my notebook. “And you kept her for several days to observe her after the procedure, even though it was a routine complication?”
He nods.
“So that would be the typical recommended stay for most patients, then?”
“Every patient is different.” He shifts in his seat, like this line of questioning is making him uncomfortable. “But for her, it made sense.”
“And why is that?” Austin asks. Dr. Munroe looks at her, his face contorting, as if he hadn’t realized she was there.
“She was afraid the wound would start bleeding again. She wanted to stay until she was sure it wouldn’t reopen.”
“And did you give her a pelvic exam while she was in your care?” Austin asks.
His carefully plastered-on smile cracks, and something dangerous plays behind his eyes. But as soon as I notice it, it’s gone, and he’s pulled the mask back on. “Of course not. There’d be no reason for that.” He glances toward the door. “Look, I really need to get back.”
“Just a couple more questions,” I say, hoping that he won’t leave quite yet. “Where were you between nine p.m. and eleven p.m. yesterday evening?” I ask.
His eyes go wide, and a low laugh slips out of him. There’s a sharp edge to it. “Do you think I did this? Really?”
“Please just answer the question, Dr. Munroe.”
“I was on rounds,” he says flippantly and glances toward the door, like he’s considering leaving again.
“And who can corroborate your whereabouts?” I ask.
“All the nurses on staff.” He crosses his arms. The charisma has vanished as if sucked clean out of him.
“None of them saw you from nine p.m. to eleven p.m.,” I say. I asked all of them. And Nurse Jordan specifically pointed out that Dr. Munroe has a habit of disappearing.
His jaw twitches. “I was napping in the staff room. It’s a long shift.”
“And the records will show that your badge was swiped to enter and exit the room?”
“I forgot my key card. A nurse let me in.”
I clear my throat and straighten in my seat. “Okay, and who was that?”
His eyes narrow. I guess he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “It doesn’t matter where I was. It’s none of your business.”
“What kind of car do you drive?” I ask, glancing between him and my notes.
“Car?” he asks. He tilts his head slightly, the way you’d expect a confused dog to react.
“Yes, your car. What make and model is it?”
“A 2019 Honda Accord,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“What color?”
“Black.”
Though that’s a very common car, it matches the type Brenden thought he saw at the motel when Asha arrived. We know both girls rode with someone, as no cars were left at the motel. I lean forward in my chair a little. “Would you be willing to provide your DNA to rule yourself out?” This is the final nail in the coffin. This is what normally flips them.
He lets out a low sigh, but defeat on his face tells me that he knows he’s got no other options. “Fine, whatever.”
“They’ll need you to stop by the station tomorrow by ten a.m. to provide a sample; otherwise I’ll get a court order,” I say. The court order is a bluff, for now.
“Fine. Can I go?” He pushes off the chair and strides out of the room before I say another word.
And I can’t help but smile, because I know exactly where this is going.
Austin and I leave the hospital, both feeling like Dr. Munroe is our best lead on the case so far. If I can tie him to the motel, we might be able to get a warrant to search his place or vehicle. Especially since his car matches the one that Brenden saw at the scene.
While we were tucked away in the hospital questioning the staff, night seeped around us, and a fresh layer of snow fell. As we walk to my car, it’s hard to believe that the bulk of the day has slipped past us. But I suppose that’s how investigations like this go: time slips through your fingers like water when it really counts. We climb into my car, and the crisp air clouds in front of us as I start the engine.
When we reach Camden PD, I climb out of the car with Asha’s devices in hand. I walk into the building, Austin trailing behind me. I throw open the front door, stroll through the bull pen, and turn right down the hall that leads to the office of Camden PD’s tech guy, Kenneth. I drop off the tech to him, getting a promise that tomorrow we’ll have a log of calls and texts. Back at my desk, I dig into my files, hoping that answers are on the horizon.
CHAPTER 8
Though I got myself a nonsmoking room, the yellowed walls and the stale scent of smoke tell me this place likely doesn’t enforce the rules. That’s what you get for fifty dollars a night, I suppose. I lean back on the bed, going over my notes for the twelfth time. Thankfully, I asked the woman at the front desk for a room away from the other patrons. It’s not that I plan on making any noise, but hotel walls are paper thin. I’ve got to be careful with some of the calls I have to take.
I text Noah to see how he is before I hit the sack for the night. He’s been quiet all day—since he started working this new story, really—which is unlike him. I want to deny that it’s putting me on edge. I’ve never been one to be uneasy about a guy growing distant, but this silence stretching between us is making me wonder if he’s okay—if we’re okay. But I try to ignore it. He’s probably just busy with his new assignment.
The sound of footsteps in the hall distracts me from my thoughts, and I pray that no one has booked one of the rooms beside mine. But when the footsteps stop directly outside my door, I sit up in bed and listen. Boards in the hall groan as someone shifts their weight on them. Time seems to slow as I wait to see if they’ll move on. When they don’t after a couple of minutes, I slip from bed. I creep closer to the door, listening. Low voices filter through. I debate what to do—pretend I’m not here or try to get them to move on? I decide to go for the latter.
“Can I help you?” I call through the door. The voices die, and somehow, this puts me more on edge. My pulse kicks up a notch as I slide closer, listening. It could be a simple mistake; that’d be the logical explanation.
When I’m inches from the door, I can hear whispers on the other side, though they’re too hushed to decipher. I glance back at the nightstand toward my
gun and decide to grab it. There’s a chance I’m being paranoid, but I’d rather be prepared and paranoid than dead. The cold metal presses into my skin, but the weight of the weapon in my hand does little to bring relief. Outside the door, the floor creaks again, sending my stomach into my throat.
I edge closer, but when I get to the peephole, there’s no one there. I open the door, glancing down the hall, left to right. But there’s no indication that anyone has been there at all. I shut the door and lock it, but it takes a long time for relief to come. It was probably someone just passing through to get to their room. This is a small, quiet town, and it’s not like anyone would try to seek me out here.
Once the adrenaline in my blood fades, I call Noah. In the quiet moments like this, my thoughts drift to him. It’s not just that I’ve barely heard from him in days. I need to talk to him. Maybe it’ll help me realize I’m being stupid. The phone rings four times, and I nearly hang up, expecting it to go to voice mail.
“Hey,” he says finally, his voice breathy, like he ran to the phone again.
“I was afraid I wasn’t going to reach you,” I say, allowing the unguarded truth to roll out in a way I wouldn’t with anyone else.
“Were you now?” The way he says it, I can practically see the cocky smirk on his face.
I ignore his comment. “How’d your day go? Getting settled in for the story?” I ask. I don’t pry into his assignments, not even the one about my sister, not until well after we wrapped up the investigation, anyway.
“In a way. This one is going to take some patience . . .” His words trail off.
“Any idea how long you’ll be there?”
“I don’t know yet.” He sighs. “This is something I’ve always wanted to do. I just don’t know if I can do it. It’s a bit close to home. You know?” There’s an edge to his voice that makes me wish I could wrap my arms around him.
