Sandman Page 14

  Jack threw the lever back to MANUAL, killing the unchecked gas flow. He glanced up and saw Will Armstrong gazing down blankly at him through the slanted glass panels of the observation booth. Then he went to the phone and called Biomed.

  * * *

  Shit on this, Byron Waverly thought. Oh, man, take a serious dump on this situation. He arrayed his tools on an instrument table and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. He could feel the dead man on the operating table behind him; the hairs on the back of his neck were having a field day.

  “Why don’t you just wheel the machine outta there?” Byron had said to his supervisor, Oliver Cowan, VP of paramedical services. “That way I can scope it out in the induction room or downstairs in Biomed.”

  “It’s a coroner’s case, Waverly,” Cowan told him. “Everything’s got to be left as is until the coroner arrives.”

  “So why don’t they truck that...effing corpse out of there? I’m not paid to deal with that shit.”

  “Are you not reading me, Byron? It’s a coroner’s case. That means the machine stays, the stiff stays, everything stays until the coroner checks it out.”

  “So where is the man?”

  “Just get your ass in there and do it.”

  Byron fitted his iPod headphones into his ears, thumbed the volume up to the barely-tolerable range and set about his task. It took him less than ten minutes to isolate the problem.

  “Hellfire,” Byron said. With a pair of forceps he held up to the light the corroded remains of three gas-line valve springs. They reeked of sulfuric acid. “Hellfire and damnation.”

  He dropped the springs into a zip-lock baggie, removed his headphones and gathered his tools. Then he looked at Dan Doogan’s body. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Shit, man,” Byron said. “Look at you. You’re a freakin’ battleship and somebody scragged your ass.”

  Byron ducked out of the room. He knew it was only his nerves, but for a second there it sure did look as if the dead man had nodded his agreement.

  * * *

  When Byron showed his findings to his boss, Oliver Cowan grabbed the nearest phone and called Peter Chartrand, president of the hospital. No sense dicking around.

  “Are you certain about this?” Chartrand said.

  “One hundred percent. The pressure reduction valves are acid eaten. There’s no question it was deliberate.”

  “Jesus Christ... Okay, Oliver, listen. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I’m going to call an emergency meeting for one o’clock. That’s thirty minutes from now. In the boardroom. I want you there and I want your man there. Until then, speak to no one.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Cowan said. “I’ll talk to Byron, make sure he understands.”

  “Good. You do that.”

  * * *

  The meeting began on schedule, all of the hospital’s key people in attendance. Emergency meetings at this level seldom meant good news, and the presence of a trio of hospital lawyers confirmed that assumption. Everyone looked grim and apprehensive.

  Once the members were seated Chartrand said, “People, we’ve got a situation. A suspicious death in one of our ORs. According to Mr. Cowan—for those of you who don’t know him, Oliver heads up our paramedical team—one of our anesthetic machines has apparently been tampered with.”

  Shocked gasps and muted whispers sifted through the boardroom.

  Chartrand waited, giving the news time to sink in. Then he said, “The way I see it, our course of action is three-pronged. First, we must ensure that a disaster of this magnitude cannot occur again. Dr. Fallon, I’ll be looking to you for suggestions in this regard. Second, if Mr. Cowan’s assertions prove correct—and we’ll need forensics’ input on this—we must devise a means of identifying the guilty party. Which brings me to my third point.” He turned to the lawyers. “Do we involve the police?”

  Jackie Fox, spokesperson for the lawyers, said, “I don’t see that we have any choice.”

  There was a sudden uproar: hands flying up, members springing to their feet, the aggressive overlap of raised voices.

  Red-faced, Chartrand stood. He was a tall man with overlong arms and when he raised them he looked like the host of a modern-day Last Supper. “Please, people. Order. There’ll be time for discussion later.”

  When the members settled, the administrator waved Byron Waverly up to the front. Byron’s presentation was brief, it’s effect, devastating. You could hear a pin drop.

  Jack’s voice cut into the silence. “This may not be the only instance of foul play.”

  Chartrand looked gray. “Jack, what do you mean? And why haven’t you spoken up before now?”

  “Because I have no real evidence,” Jack said. “But there have been a number of...unusual mishaps in the recent past, both in the OR and the ICU.” As examples he sited the case of Ben Crabtree, the would-be armed robber shot-gunned during a holdup attempt, and the pump failure in cardiac. “As in other cases I could mention, these could have been innocent mishaps. Probably were. But they could also have been deliberate.”

  “Jesus,” Chartrand said. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Sophie, could you come in here a moment, please? I want you to show Ms. Fox to my office. She has an important call to make.” To the lawyer he said, “Call the police. Ask for Detective-Sergeant Wesley Fransen in Major Crimes.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve had some dealings with him in the past.” He looked at Jack. “Jesus,” was all he could say.

  * * *

  The meeting wore on for another hour, the discussion heated, at times turning nasty. One member felt the public should be warned. Another argued that the ORs should be closed until the perpetrator was safely behind bars. Ultimately, Chartrand was compelled to warn them that no one—at the risk of their jobs and/or their hospital privileges—no one was to breathe a word of this to anyone outside of the boardroom. Something like this could ruin the hospital, he told them, hurl it into infamy, not to mention bankruptcy. And no one wanted that.

  It was Jack’s suggestion that all of the anesthetic machines be inspected before being used again. He also recommended that when not in use they be kept under lock and key. Oliver Cowan suggested locks be installed on each of the operating suite doors and some system of key distribution be devised. The suggestion was accepted by all concerned and a work order was issued to the maintenance department.

  “Our main aim is to avoid general alarm,” Chartrand said in his wrap up. “What we can’t afford, either fiscally or from the standpoint of continued patient care, is to interrupt services indefinitely. So. Let us keep a tight rein on the number of informed people—no sense sending up flares for our perpetrator—quarantine the anesthetic machines when they’re not in use—” he stood “—and let’s see what the authorities have to say. Meeting adjourned.”

  * * *

  Detective Wes Fransen sat across from Peter Chartrand at the administrator’s teak desk and triggered his inhaler. He was a big man, sixty pounds overweight, and this humid weather played hell with his asthma. He waited thirty seconds, the wheeze easing off a little, then took another hit. Holding his breath, he looked at Chartrand and said, “Ashtray?”

  The administrator slid over a pewter ashtray, a golf trophy that had never been used. Fransen crushed his butt into it. It was six PM. All booked cases in the OR had been completed. The only procedure still underway was an appendectomy, which Dr. Marti was handling. For the time being all other area emergencies were being shunted to the Civic Hospital, the official pretext being a fouled ventilation system in the Med Center OR. Forensics was still busy sweeping the room for evidence and Fransen’s men had been quietly gathering statements since before three o’clock. So far, nothing.

  “What we have here, Peter,” the detective said, “is your basic can of worms.”

  “Tell me about it.” Chartrand dug a bottle of Maalox out of a drawer and took a swig. He grimaced. “I just hope we can keep a lid on it.”

  “Good luck. Between you
and me, I don’t think we’re going to find squat.” The detective plugged a Marlboro into the corner of his mouth and lit it with a book match. He squinted at Chartrand through a wreath of smoke. “What we’ve got to do now is narrow the field. Determine who has both access and the requisite know-how and grill them. We need profiles. Who’s got problems in their personal lives, that sort of thing.”

  Chartrand sneezed. He was allergic to smoke, but couldn’t bring himself to complain. Like most citizens, cops made him nervous.

  “Two names come to mind,” Chartrand said. “Not as suspects, but as individuals who might be able to steer you toward possible suspects. The first is Paul Daw. He’s a staff psychiatrist who provides an informal counseling service for some of his colleagues. The other is Jack Fallon. He’s Chief of Anesthesia and Director of ICU. He keeps pretty close tabs on his staff. He might have a few ideas.”

  “What about Fallon himself?”

  “Jack? I really don’t know him well enough to say. He’s aloof, a little spooky sometimes, maybe, but there’s no one better at what he does. I know he’s made enemies around here, but that sort of thing happens to almost anyone in a position of power.”

  “Can you arrange a meeting?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Chartrand said. “I believe Jack is still in the building.”

  * * *

  After the staff meeting Jack went to ICU to do rounds, then to his office to dictate some notes. Detective Fransen was already there, perched on the corner of Jack’s desk. He introduced himself, flashing his badge, and got straight to the point.

  “Can you think of anyone on your staff who might be inclined to do such a thing?”

  Fransen picked up an artifact from Jack’s desk, a jade carving of a martial artist, and began palming it from hand to hand.

  “Anesthetists are a quirky lot,” Jack said. “But I don’t believe we’re harboring any psychopaths. Would you mind putting that down? It’s quite precious to me.”

  “Sorry,” Fransen said, obliging. He glanced at the figure as he set it down. “That’s Kung Fu or something, isn’t it? Are you into that, Doctor Fallon?”

  “I have a peripheral interest.”

  “So no one comes to mind?”

  “Not immediately. If I were you, I’d start my investigation in the biomedical department. Those are the people with the know-how. Most anesthetists are like car owners, Detective. They can drive the machines—turn them on and off, put them through their paces—but if something goes wrong under the hood...”

  “I see your point. Thanks, Doctor Fallon. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  Jack smiled. “Glad to help.”

  “Oh, before I go, could you direct me to Doctor Daw’s office? I’d like to have a word with him, too.”

  “It’s on the main floor,” Jack said. “West wing. Room 2D.”

  * * *

  Paul sat at his desk after Fransen left, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the big man’s wake. Paul’s hands were trembling, the armpits of his dress shirt soaked with sweat.

  When the detective asked him if he could think of anyone who might be capable of deliberately causing a patient’s death, a memory flashed in Paul’s mind with an abrupt and intrusive force, causing him to cut his gaze away from Fransen’s. The memory shook him to the core—or more correctly, the connection the memory induced—but he believed he’d recovered quickly enough to deflect suspicion.

  And that was all it was, really. A suspicion. An unconscious leap from the known to the unknown triggered by Fransen’s question. Thinking about it now, without that wheezy hulk of a man staring across the desk at him, Paul was ready to dismiss it as absurd.

  But still...

  He took a ragged breath and closed his eyes, letting the memory unfold. Fifteen years ago now, shortly after meeting Jack for the first time: Paul an intern, doing a three-month stint in ICU; Jack the senior resident, assigned to supervise Paul during his rotation.

  Paul recalled his first impressions of Jack, day one of his rotation, the program director making the introductions. How he, Paul, had gasped softly and felt his face redden when Jack smiled at him and offered his hand to be shaken. Tall, deeply tanned, movie-star handsome, so striking Paul could scarcely meet the man’s gaze.

  “Nice to meet you, Paul,” Jack had said, shaking his hand with surprising gentleness, his free hand touching Paul’s arm. “Glad to have you aboard.”

  Jack had taken him around the unit then, introducing him to the nurses and the few patients who were well enough to appreciate the gesture. Then they had done rounds together, Jack demonstrating a level of skill and clinical acumen Paul could only aspire to. It wasn’t long before Paul came to consider the man a mentor. He could think of no finer practitioner to model himself after.

  But all that changed one late night during Paul’s second month in the rotation. It changed abruptly and with all the subtlety of a razor slash...

  * * *

  “Jesus, Jack, what are you doing?”

  Jack faced Paul calmly in the darkened ICU cubicle. He did not switch the ventilator back on.

  “What does it look like?” Paul reached for the switch and Jack pushed his hand away. “Leave it,” he said. “It’s almost over now.”

  Paul’s gaze flashed to the nurses at the main desk, twenty feet away. “Come on, Jack, turn it back on. You can’t do this...”

  “Look at him,” Jack said. “Can you picture yourself in his skin? Or someone you love?”

  Paul looked at the dying patient, an elderly man riddled with cancer: skeletal limbs, eyes grotesquely socketed, belly as distended as a full-term pregnancy.

  “That still doesn’t give you the right—”

  “Oh, but it does,” Jack said. “It most certainly does.”

  The oscilloscope showed the erratic pattern of a dying heart. Jack had silenced the alarms.

  Paul said, “Shit, I’m getting out of here...”

  “Listen,” Jack said, switching the ventilator back on. The old man was dead; it had taken only a minute. “I understand how you feel. I felt the same way the first time I saw this being done.”

  “You mean...”

  Jack nodded. “Other people do this, too. Quite often, in fact.” He turned the monitor back on, the alarm beginning to whine. “So you’ve got a decision to make.” Nurses were converging on the room now. “Either you talk—and if you do, it’s going to be hard to convince anyone you didn’t take an active part.” Paul opened his mouth to protest and Jack raised a silencing hand. “Or you can trust me.”

  Three nurses entered the cubicle. Jack’s eyes, sleekly reptilian in this low light, bore into Paul’s.

  “He’s gone,” Paul said, surprised at how steady he sounded.

  “That’s a blessing,” one of the nurses said. She glanced at Jack and something seemed to pass between them. “Dr. Fallon, will you sign the death certificate?”

  Jack turned to Paul. “Why don’t you sign it, Paul?” he said. “You’ll be needing the practice—”

  * * *

  A familiar voice said, “Daydreaming, Paul?” and Paul opened his eyes, so startled he almost fell out of his chair.

  Jack was leaning in the doorway, smiling at him.

  “Jack, no...man, you gave me a start.”

  “That why you’re sweating?”

  Paul sat straight in his chair, clearing his throat, his hands squaring papers on his desk, looking for something to do.

  Jack said, “What did the cop want?”

  Paul felt his face redden. “Just sending out feelers, I guess. Wanted to know if I could think of anyone who might fit the profile.”

  “And?”

  “I told him no.”

  Jack was smiling, but his eyes pinned Paul like a bug to a sheet of bristol board. He said, “Hell of a thing, isn’t it. These killings. Who do you think it might be?”

  “I really have no idea,” Paul said, and remembered the last time Jack had looked at hi
m this way...in the moment before the nurses came into the cubicle that night in ICU.

  “Well, chum,” Jack said, the smile reaching his eyes now, “gotta go. We should get together again sometime soon. Double date. You could bring that little French number...Cerise, wasn’t it?” Paul nodded. “Still seeing her?”

  “No.”

  “Shame,” Jack said, giving him a wink. “She must’ve been a wild one in the rack.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said, trying to plant a grin on his face. “A real animal.”

  “Ah, well. Plenty more where that came from, eh, buddy?”

  “Yeah. Tons.”

  Jack gave his head a little shake and walked away, his heels beating a slow tattoo down the hall.

  * * *

  Wes Fransen had been a cop for twenty-eight years, a detective for nineteen of those, and in that time he’d become a pretty apt scholar of human nature. Lies, for the most part, were easy to spot. They came in all shapes and flavors, but by now he could see the majority of them coming from a mile away. Truth could be a little tougher, but it had a quality which, to the practiced observer, could generally be discerned. He saw it at the AA meetings he’d attended twice a week for the past nine years, and occasionally, in his job. Truth had a kind of...glow.

  But a gray zone existed between truth and fiction which continued to perplex him. Because the lie, if there was a lie, was seldom deliberate. Fransen had no reliable barometer for this phenomenon. The only thing he knew for certain was its cause. Fear. And when he left Paul Daw’s office on that sticky Monday evening, he slotted the psychiatrist into this category. The doctor knew something or suspected something, but he was just too shit scared to articulate it.

  Fransen circled Paul’s name in his notebook, going around and around it until it jumped off the page. Beneath that he wrote the word ‘Fallon’, adding a big question mark beside it. Spooky was the word Chartrand had used, and Fransen was inclined to agree. Big, cool, and spooky.

  He pocketed the notebook and headed for his car.

  14

  PAUL DAW STOOD AT THE foot of Jenny’s hospital bed with Craig Walsh, the two physicians speaking in hushed tones. Jenny lay motionless beneath the blankets, eyes closed, respirations shallow and even. It was eleven o’clock Tuesday morning.