No Cure for Murder (25 page)
“Cancer? What are you talking about? I see no sign of cancer of any kind. Your tests are perfectly normal. Am I missing something?”
“It’s just...I thought... When Dr. Spelling didn’t call, I thought it was something bad.”
“I looked over your chart, Mrs. Weiss...”
“Peggy...everyone calls me Peggy.”
“Yes, Peggy. Dr. Spelling’s last note and your tests say you’re doing just fine. Maybe I can look deeper to find something for you to worry about.”
Peggy laughed. “No, that’s okay. I feel like such a fool going off like that.”
“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t get a little anxious waiting for test results. It’s natural to be concerned. Anything else?”
“No, Dr. Weizman. Now I see why people talk so kindly about you.”
After Jacob set the phone down, Margaret placed her hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “That was sweet of you, Jacob.”
“Did Zoe try to reach Peggy today?”
“She said she’d try.”
Later that same afternoon, Bruce Bryant stood behind his desk looking at the small crowd gathered within: members of the medical staff, hospital counsel, the police, and representative of the DA. Outside his street level window, people milled about and stared into his office.
“See what I have to put up with,” Bruce said, as he lowered the blinds.
Ira Green, the chief of police studied Bruce. “What did you expect? You have a serial killer loose in Brier Hospital,”
“Wait a minute,” said Al David, the hospital’s attorney. “You’re jumping to conclusions. One poisoning with antifreeze does not a serial killer make.”
“Excuse me,” said Jeremy Finch, an assistant DA, “I’m just getting up to speed, but this isn’t the only case.”
Al David turned to Bruce Bryant. “Nobody’s proved that those other cases were anything but simple errors.”
“Simple errors?” said Warren Davidson, the chief of medicine. “I care about this hospital as much as you do, Bruce, but let’s not kid ourselves. Rory Calhoun and his narcotic overdose, Nathan Seigel, overdosed with Lidocaine, Harry Rodman, overdosed with heparin, and finally the antifreeze case. Must I draw you pictures?”
Jeremy Finch stood. “This is out of your hands, gentlemen. The DA’s office has heard more than enough to begin a thorough investigation. I expect all of you to fully cooperate with Chief Green and the DA’s investigators.”
“If this hits the press,” said Bruce, “it’s going to kill us.”
“It’s too late, Bruce,” said Warren. “And, I’d be careful in my choice of words.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Jacob walked to Harry Rodman’s room at Brier’s Skilled Nursing Facility (SNF). After they placed the blood filter into his inferior vena cava, Harry had no further clots, but the frontal lobe bleed had caused neurological problems.
Phyllis sat at Harry’s bedside and when Jacob entered, she rose and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “We’re so glad to see you, Jacob. What’s happening?”
“How am I doing?” Harry asked in a monotone, extending his hand.
Jacob sat next to Harry and addressed him deliberately. “You have injured part of your brain, Harry.”
“What part?”
Jacob placed his hand over his forehead. “It’s here in the frontal lobe. Damage here can produce dramatic or subtle changes. In your case, Harry, we find few signs of injury when we examine you.”
Phyllis held Harry’s hand. “He’s different, more mellow. Is that a part of it?”
“Could be.”
Jacob walked up to Harry. “I’m going to do a few tests...okay?”
“No problem, Doc. No needles, right?”
“No needles. I’m going to raise either one or two fingers. If I raise one, I want you to say two. If I raise two, I want you to say one. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Jacob raised one finger.
“One,” Harry said.
Phyllis paled.
Jacob repeated the instructions, and then tried again, raising two fingers.
“Two.”
“You don’t have to watch this, Phyllis.”
“No, it’s okay.”
Jacob repeated his instructions then performed the finger test ten times. Harry got it wrong in all but one.
Harry blinked blandly and stared at Jacob. “What’s wrong with me?”
“It’s okay, Harry. It’s just a mild injury. It should improve over time.”
Phyllis sat wringing a handkerchief between her fingers. “How much time?”
“Months, I’d guess.”
“One more test, Harry. I’m going to give you sixty seconds to name as many things as you can starting with the letter F, no proper nouns. Got it?”
Harry nodded.
Jacob looked at his watch. “Begin.”
“Fish...friend...phone...” came slowly, then Harry paused.
Jacob stared at his watch. “Come on Harry, you have thirty seconds.”
Harry stared ahead in silence. The seconds clicked back to zero.
Jacob caressed Harry’s head. “It’s okay. You’ll get it.”
Afterward, standing outside in the corridor, Jacob turned to Phyllis. “Don’t be upset. Time is on our side. The brain has wonderful healing powers for this kind of injury.”
“I miss him, Jacob,” said Phyllis, “the old feistiness...the old Harry.”
“I know. I’m sending him home tomorrow, but you two are going to be busy with physical and occupational therapy, and a series of neurological rehabilitation programs to whip his brain back to its old self.”
“I read the papers and watch the news, Jacob. Was Harry’s bleeding problem part of that?”
Jacob locked on Phyllis’s eyes. “I’m not sure, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“Harry never hurt anyone in his life. Who could do such a thing to him, Jacob?”
“I wish I knew.”
“I don’t get it, Zoe,” said Jacob when he returned to the office after lunch.
“Don’t get what?”
“How someone could deliberately try to kill a sweet man like Harry Rodman. Even the SS in the camps had to dehumanize their victims before they killed.”
“How sure are you that it was deliberate? Maybe it was an accident.”
“I tried to believe that, but I have no doubt that these are cold-blooded acts of a serial killer, a psychopath who doesn’t care who he injures or kills.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“The hospital and the police are investigating and the increased security should make our patients feel better. If you ask me, I think it’s too little, too late.”
“That’s pretty pessimistic for you, Jacob.”
“No really. He’s going to get caught. Like all psychopaths, he’s doomed to make a mistake…he needs to make a mistake...it’s part of his disease. That’s how it’s going to end.”
“The chaplain did what?” Lola shouted as she began her next session with Sarah.
“Don’t get your britches on fire. I handled it.”
“I haven’t worn britches in seventy-five years.” Lola paused. “He got angry?”
“He was pissed for sure. Maybe he can’t tolerate sass in general, or perhaps it’s just me.”
“I don’t trust the man,” said Lola. “Approaching you, under these circumstances, suggests bad judgment at the least. I don’t want you anywhere near that man.”
“I tried to avoid him, but he was determined to get in my face.”
“I’m proud of you,” said Lola, “or maybe I should say you were, what’s the term you girls use...oh yes...wicked.”
“You’re too much, Lola.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Not to worry, I’ll talk with Jacob about the good chaplain.”
Jacob and Lola sat in the den after dinner sipping Adela Velha, their favorite Portuguese brandy.
“You’re preaching to the choir, Lola.”
“If Dix had any common sense,” said Lola, “he would have kept a mile away from Sarah. It’s what we’d expect from a sociopath or maybe a narcissist who thinks he has the ultimate control over the world.”
“Come on, Lola, don’t people have to cross some line before you nail them with such specific diagnoses?”
“Of course. It’s the difference between paranoia, varying from mild to severe and paranoid personality disorder or paranoid schizophrenia. We’re just talking, but I’m sure something’s wrong with that man.”
“I agree. I thought, at first, that it was his self-righteous overconfidence, the arrogance of a man who thinks he’s doing God’s work. Maybe it’s more complicated. Let’s see what we can find out about chaplain Carleton Dix.”
“Remember, Jacob, a person may need to be a little crazy to ascend to the chaplain’s heights of religious zealotry.”
“I’ll accept the heights metaphor, if you include the fall.”
Chapter Forty-Four
San Francisco Chronicle
Dateline, Berkeley, California
Berkeley Police are investigating the poisoning of a Brier Hospital patient. The hospital spokesman and the police refused to release any details. However, informed sources say that a patient, Angelina Cass, a thirty-year-old woman, received a near lethal dose of antifreeze. Sources say that after emergency treatment including kidney dialysis, she’s recovering.
This is the latest of several patient misadventures, and unexplained deaths at Brier Hospital, previously thought of as one of the finest hospitals in the bay area.
Berkeley’s Chief of Police, Ira Green, promises a thorough investigation.
Bruce Bryant held up the newspaper. “Look at this crap. Previously thought to be...It doesn’t take long to destroy a reputation, does it?”
“I’ve briefed our public relations people,” said Al David. “They’ll use all the right words: Meeting the highest standards, the finest medical staff, the highest rating by the Joint Commission on Hospital Accreditation, and cite all our awards and achievements, but that will pale next to ‘Killer stalks the halls of Brier Hospital’. Solving this, and doing it quickly, is our only hope.”
“If this turns out to be the action of one of our employees or somebody on the staff,” said Bruce, “we’re twice screwed.”
Ira Green sat behind his gray metal desk at police headquarters in Berkeley. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook since this thing hit the front pages.”
Detective Shelly Kahn studied her nails. “What did you expect, Ira? The hospital is a sanctuary, the one place people trust and can go to when they’re sick and most vulnerable. The enemy should be disease, not a murderer.”
“The mayor called, then the Attorney General. Please tell me you have something, Shelly.”
“Nothing, chief. We’d have been incredibly lucky to have a lead at this stage of the investigation. Dr. Davidson asked the Quality Assurance Committee to review all the deaths in the last eighteen months with one question in mind: Were any of them murder?”
“What’s the hospital doing?”
“Like most hospitals, Brier is pretty lax about security except in the pediatric area. Now, if anyone on the staff arrives without their picture ID, they send them home. Heightened security should discourage any further attempts, but if it’s an inside job...?”
“I hope so, Shelly, but when you’re dealing with this kind of sicko, you never know.”
“Anything else, Chief?”
“You’re heading this investigation, Shelly. I’ll give you whatever resources you need. Just catch this son-of-a-bitch...and soon.” He paused and looked up at Shelly. “Let’s not forget the fundamentals.”
“Fundamentals?”
“The fundamentals, such as who do you like, sight unseen, when a husband or wife is killed, and where was Angelina’s husband Milo?”
“He was home, drunk.”
“Alone?”
“So he says. I’ll get on it, Chief.”
Hospitals, like people, have personalities, and can’t avoid the effects of the mayhem surrounding them. Brier Hospital, after years of struggling, had reached the point where its name spelled optimism, competence, compassion, and security. Now it spelled murder.
Before the San Francisco Chronicle article splashed gruesome details about the deaths at Brier, gatherings around the lounges and water coolers spread speculation and supposition like oil on a pond. Now, with increased security and the presence of many new faces, the staff felt like they were working in a fish bowl.
A group of nurses sat in the staff lounge sharing the afternoon newspaper.
“Every time I look over my shoulder,” said Ginny Harrison, “I meet another pair of accusing eyes.”
“In your case,” Mary Oakes said, smiling, “that’s perfectly appropriate.”
“Now I know how you made your way to the top of nursing administration, Mary...ruthlessness.”
Gail Sergeant, another senior nurse said, “Since this whole thing began, I’ve been having terrible nightmares. I suddenly awaken in a sweat, and look around my room making sure nobody’s there.”
“It’s got to be someone on the staff,” said Ginny, “but who?”
