by Thomas Scott
“What’s with all the cream?” he asked.
Amber chuckled at him. “Some big study from a few years ago. It’s supposed to have a calming effect or something.” She lowered her voice then said, “Personally, I think it’s bull. I mean, if you’re on this floor, you’ve got some serious problems to try to overcome. Most of the patients are recovering from closed head injuries…or something just as bad. I doubt they care much about the décor.”
Decker didn’t answer, but thought she was probably right.
The floor was quiet. They only passed two patients, both in wheelchairs pushed by creamy attendants whose facial expressions were much the same as the people in the chairs, as if being on the floor was its own kind of hell. Whether you were pushing the chair or sitting in it made little difference.
Decker pushed the janitorial cart with one hand and slipped his other hand in his pocket, feeling the syringes that held the lethal doses of morphine. When they turned from the main corridor and into the short wing he knew they were close so he popped the cap from one of the syringes with his thumb and forefinger, careful not to poke himself.
“Here we are,” Amber said. She’d stopped in front of a door to a private room. Decker glanced at the placard on the wall, made a mental note of the room number, smiled and said, “After you.” He swept his arm in front of the door in a gentlemanly way. Amber blushed slightly, gave the door a polite knock and placed her hand on the knob.
Then something happened and it saved her life.
Her hospital pager began to buzz.
“Oh shit…whoops, I meant shoot.” She blushed again. “I’ve got to run. Something’s happening on my floor.”
Decker was momentarily caught off guard. His instinct was to grab her and pull her into the room. He even found himself reaching out for her arm, but he stopped himself. If she screamed, or it went bad in any other way he’d be screwed. Plus, she was already moving, out of reach.
“Nice to meet you, Sam,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll see you again. Take care.”
“You too,” Decker said, in spite of himself. Two seconds later she was around the corner and gone. And now he had a decision to make. He could go in and take care of Martha Esser, or he could come back and do her later. The one thing he knew he couldn’t do was continue to stand outside her door doing nothing at all.
He moved the cart to the opposite side of the hallway and pushed it two doors down. The smallest of distractions in case anyone turned the corner. He grabbed a spray bottle and a rag from the cart, then stepped back to Martha’s room, opened the door and slipped inside.
The blinds were closed and the lights were off so he had to stop just inside the doorway to let his eyes adjust. A faint green glow from a heartbeat monitor cast a pale light over the bed. Martha Esser was on her back, with one arm hanging clumsily over the side. Decker stood there for a moment, his eyes adjusting, and watched her breathe. The monitor bleeped out the rhythm of her heartbeat and as it did, Decker noticed that his own heart was beating almost twice as fast as hers. He could see that her head was heavily bandaged on one side and she had some sort of apparatus attached to her shoulders and skull.
A bracing system of some kind with rods that ran vertically from her shoulders that attached to a set of double rings that encircled her head. A halo. He didn’t know how he knew what the device was called…he just knew. Probably from a TV medical drama. He liked to watch those.
An oxygen tube ran under her throat and behind her ears before making its way to her nostrils. An IV drip bag hung from a pole on the opposite side of the bed, the line snaking awkwardly across her body before reaching the back of her wrist where it was held in place by a clear bandage. There was an injection port poking out of the tape. That’s where he’d inject the lethal dose of morphine.
From the looks of her, Decker thought, he’d be doing her a favor. He was no doctor, but if the shows on TV were at least somewhat authentic—and he thought they were—then Martha Esser didn’t look like she was quite ready to be out of intensive care. She looked like she was ready for the morgue.
He had the syringe in his hand now, and began to move towards the bed. It was filled with enough morphine to kill a horse…not that’d he’d ever do anything like that. Horses were kind, intelligent beautiful animals. His mind was racing, wandering, and he knew it. Adrenaline.
He took another step and stood right next to Martha Esser’s bed. He stuck the needle of the syringe into the injection port, placed his thumb on the plunger, and thought…
Amber.
He’d have killed her. Had been ready to do so simply out of necessity. The fact that he hadn’t created a problem. He stood there with his thumb on the plunger and thought it through. Could she identify him? She didn’t know his name. His head was covered with one of those ridiculous blue paper caps pulled low over his forehead. He’d avoided eye contact with her as much as possible. Was that suspicious? It probably was.
And what about his leg? People with a prosthetic leg move with a certain gait. She was a nurse. She’d probably known all along and was simply too polite to say anything. He imagined the conversation she’d have with the cops:
“Oh, yes, Officer. He’s the one, I recognize his voice. And he seemed lost, like he didn’t know which end of the hospital was which. I remember after they hired me we got the full tour and during our training we had to learn where every department was located, you know, in case anyone asked, or in the event of an emergency or whatnot. And it’s not only the nurses. It didn’t matter if you were a doctor or a cafeteria worker, you had to do the tour. And I’ll tell you something else, I knew all along about the prosthetic. I see those every day of my life. I’d be ninety percent sure anyway, but that leg of his? You can always tell. Yep, that’s him all right. Unless he’s got an identical twin brother with a prosthetic leg, he’s the one who murdered Martha Esser. Take him away. Testify in court? Of course. I’d consider it my civic duty.”
Shit.
He’d have to deal with the nurse later. Maybe. This wasn’t her floor. She might not even hear about it. And if she did, what were the chances the cops would end up talking to her? Slim? None? Likely? He simply didn’t know.
What he did know was this: If he didn’t do this and do it now, some very dangerous people were going to be extremely upset with him. He was just about to push the plunger down when Martha’s eyes popped open. She reached across the bed and clamped her hand around his wrist. He tried to pull away but Martha, a strong country woman, held him tight and wouldn’t let go. Decker began to panic. He tried to pry her fingers away without success.
“Bitch.” He hissed it at her. He grabbed the frame of the halo and twisted it violently to one side. Martha tried to let out a scream so he punched her hard in the gut and that took the air out of her. The plunger was still in the port and he pushed it all the way down, then watched as her breathing began to slow almost immediately.
Less than a minute later she exhaled one final time—her lips making a little motorboat noise—and that was it. He placed his hand on her heart…it was quivering, more like a muscle spasm than a beat, but after a few seconds that stopped too. The heartbeat monitor was showing a flat line and making a continuous screeching noise. Decker pushed a few buttons but couldn’t find the right one to turn it off. He followed the power cord to the wall thinking he’d simply pull the plug but the machine was hard-wired into the wall. He took a knife from his pocket and sliced the cord in two that caused a brief shower of sparks, but the machine finally stopped screeching at him. With that done, he pulled the syringe from the injection port, capped it, and put it back in his pocket. Martha Esser was gone.
Strong as an ox, though.
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, took the bag that held the extra vial of morphine and Pam Donatti’s hair from his pocket. His hands were shaking badly, but he managed to get one strand of hair on the center of the bed, and let the other fall on the floor next to the IV stand.
His own heart was pounding away, the adrenaline running strong and he had some trouble deciding the best placement for the morphine vial. He wanted it to either look like she’d dropped it and lost it, or that she’d simply forgotten it. Ultimately he decided that the forgetting option was the way to go, so he set the vial on the table next to the bed. It occurred to him though, if someone other than the cops touched the vial, Pam’s prints could be covered up and ruined. He couldn’t have that, so he placed the vial on the floor behind the table, as if it had been dropped and lost. The crime scene techs should find it before anyone else did. He hoped so, anyway because a clock was ticking in his head and he knew it was time to boogie. If he stood there any longer trying to decide on the perfect placement he may as well just cuff himself to the bed and wait for the cops to show up.
Decker moved across the room, put his ear close to the door and listened. The hallway was quiet. He was going to crack the door and take a peek, but he’d learned in the army that if you were going to be somewhere you shouldn’t, the best way to pull it off is to act like you were supposed to be there.
In the end it didn’t matter. When he pulled the door open the hallway was still empty. He retrieved his cart, put the spray bottle and rag back in the side bin and moved back down the hall, toward the elevators. There were a few other things he needed to do, and soon. He was running through the list in his head, all the while thinking that he almost got his ass kicked by a woman in a hospital bed, but when he turned the corner at the end of the hallway he forgot all about the list and the strong-as-an-ox bitch.
The two state cops, Jones and Wheeler were at the far end of the hall, coming right at him.
When they arrived at the hospital the parking garage was full and Virgil ended up circling the campus twice looking for a place to park. After the third circuit he gave up and parked his truck in one of the valet spots right by the front entrance. He tossed an oversized “State Police Official Business” placard on top of the dash and locked the doors.
“That right there is an invitation to be towed,” Murton said.
“Hasn’t ever happened.”
“Doesn’t mean it never will.”
“I’ve had it for years,” Virgil said. “Issued when I made detective. Besides, it has the official seal of the state on it, right there at the top.”
Murton leaned over the fender and looked closely at the sign through the windshield. “I’m telling you, it looks like you made it yourself at Kinko’s or something…about twenty years ago. The font alone is grounds for a misdemeanor. I’m tempted to write the ticket myself.”
“Are you coming or not?”
“I don’t know. If you’re really going to park here, one of us should stay behind and guard the truck.”
“Screw that,” Virgil said. “I’m the fuzz. I can park wherever I want. That sign on the dash says so.”
“That sign on the dash says ‘Tow me,’” Murton said as he moved toward the hospital entrance. “But whatever, dude. It’s your truck. You should at least let the valet guy know.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Virgil stopped at the valet station inside the double doors, identified himself to the kid behind the stand, and told him where he’d parked. In retrospect, he’d used a little too much attitude.
“I’m sorry, sir, but those are reserved spots. You can’t park there. Hospital security has sanctioned me to have any unauthorized vehicles towed from those spots.”
Sanctioned? “That’s an official state police vehicle. You have it towed and I’ll have you arrested.”
The kid turned around and looked out the window at the spot where Virgil had parked. “That’s a Ford Raptor. Hell of a nice truck. Do all official state police vehicles have vanity plates, sir?” Virgil’s plate said ‘Jonesy.’
“Did you not hear me? I’m authorized to take you to jail,” Virgil said.
The kid rolled his eyes and held out his arms, his wrists turned upward, the palms of his hands hanging limply upside down. After a beat: “No? I didn’t think so. I’ve got the towing company on speed dial, by the way.”
Virgil gave in. “Okay, how much does authorization go for these days?”
“Twenty bucks.”
“Twenty bucks? That’s crazy. How about ten?”
“You have exactly three choices, sir. Move the truck, get towed, or pay the twenty-five dollar courtesy fee.”
Virgil shook his head. Courtesy fee. “Twenty-five? Two seconds ago you said twenty.”
“Yes sir, I did. But that was before you decided to negotiate.”
Virgil wasn’t backing down. “All right kid, look, I want to talk with your supervisor. Right now.”
The kid gave him a slow blink. “Yes, sir. That’s fine. He’s in his office, right down the hall. I’ll have him here in less than thirty seconds. But before we get to all of that, may I ask you a question?”
Virgil had him now. “You just did.”
“Indeed I did, sir. May I ask you another question following this one?”
Virgil sighed. “What?”
“Do you have a supervisor?”
“Yeah, I do. So what?”
“Well, I’d like to have a word with yours as well.” He took a pen from the pocket of his vest, clicked it a few times and waited. “The number, please. Sir?”
People were beginning to stare and Virgil was turning red. “Oh, fuck it.” He took out his wallet and tried to hand the kid a twenty and a five. The kid just clicked his pen a few more times, then looked at Murton. “He’s not very good at this sort of thing, is he?”
Murton covered his mouth with his hand, like he was scratching his cheek. He just shook his head.
“What are you doing?” Virgil said. “Do you want the money or not?”
“Yes sir, I do. The pay isn’t too great around here, as I’m sure you might imagine. But I’m still waiting for the number of your supervisor. That’s what we agreed to, is it not? You give me the number of your supervisor and I’ll have my supervisor come down here and everything will be all squared away.”
“How much if we leave the supervisors out of the equation?”
“That would be forty dollars, sir.”
“Fort—” Virgil caught himself before he did any more damage. He looked in his wallet, then over at Murton, who was bent over with his hands on his thighs. “I need five bucks.”
In the elevator: “That’s extortion. I should lock his skinny ass up.”
Murton, still laughing. “Extortion? Man, that was a thing of beauty. That kid took you to the mat. You should have seen your face when he asked for Cora’s number.”
“I did okay. He had me at a disadvantage, is all.”
“Okay? When is Small due again?”
Virgil gave him a skeptical look. “Little less than a month. Why?”
Murton clapped him on the back. “No reason. You’re going to make a hell of a good father, I’m certain of it, but when it’s time to teach young Wyatt how to negotiate, maybe you better leave that part to Uncle Murt.”
Virgil finally laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Don’t even ask me what I paid for the truck.”
Murton turned slowly until his entire body was facing Virgil.
“What?”
“You paid sticker, didn’t you?” Murton said.
Virgil didn’t answer.
“Oh man…nobody pays sticker. Nobody.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. It’s a Raptor. They don’t make them anymore and it was the last one on the lot. It was a holdover or something. I’m not sure what that means, but the guy who owns the dealership was keeping it for himself.”
“That’s what they told you, huh?”
“What do you mean, that’s what they told me? It’s the truth.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, I don’t…exactly. But so what if it wasn’t? I got the truck, didn’t I?”
“You owe me ten bucks.”
“Ten? I borrowed fiv
e.”
“Gotta pay the vig, brother. You can pay me or I’ll give the kid your number and let him collect.”
They stepped off the elevator and turned down the main hall. It was empty, except for a janitor pushing a cart toward them.
When Decker saw the cops he immediately looked straight down to hide his face. Then he got down on one knee with his back turned and began rearranging the items on the cart. The cops were laughing about something…he didn’t know what. He didn’t care either. Probably some bullshit cop humor. All he needed was for them to pass by without saying anything so he could make it off the floor and out of the hospital without being recognized…or getting caught.
It felt like it took them forever to pass by. He never looked up, but sensed them slow down as they walked by, like maybe they were looking him over, but then he heard one of them say, “They said down here, but…ah, here we go…on the right. Right there at the end.”
17
Sandy parked in Pam’s driveway, went to the front door and rang the bell. When no one answered she went to the rear of the house, thinking Pam might be in back, but when she rounded the final corner she saw that the backyard was empty. She knocked hard on the backdoor but got no response.
After a moment she took out her phone and made the call.
“Are you sure about this?” Cora said.
“As sure as I can be. When I saw her yesterday she was a mess.” Sandy spent a few minutes bringing Cora up to speed with the rest of the story, then said, “You know how it is, Cora. If I call the locals for a wellness check I’ll be here for an hour waiting on them to show. If the governor’s chief of staff calls, they’ll be here in two minutes. Probably less.”
Cora was quiet for a moment, then said, “If the governor’s chief calls and it turns out that Pam is at the mall or getting groceries or whatever, the governor is not going to be very happy with you know who.”
