Code 15 (31 page)

“A few days ago.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s in intensive care at Shands,” Ben said. “He’s got bilateral femur fractures and a busted pelvis. Evidently, he lost quite a bit of blood.”

“What happened?”

“He was out jogging and got hit by a car. Sheryl said the driver took off.”

“A hit-and-run?”

“It sounds that way.”

“Did they catch the guy?”

“Not yet.”

Morgan’s mind began reeling like a spinnaker. “For a small college town, you’d think that would be pretty unusual.”

“I guess even small towns have their share of unconscionable people,” Ben said. He paused for a few seconds. Morgan could feel him studying her. “You have that look again,” he told her.

“What look?”

“C’mon, Morgan. You know exactly what I’m talking about. What are you thinking about?”

“The whole thing just strikes me as a little strange—that’s all.”

“You already said that.”

“We’ve recently had two bizarre Code Fifteens involving heart patients. If my theory’s right, the person responsible has some irrational gripe with the hospital, specifically the Cardiac Care Center. The Center was Bob Allenby’s baby right from the get-go. He was the one who breathed life into it and he was the one who supervised every brick of its construction. I just think it’s a little strange that all of a sudden his son’s the victim of some bizarre accident.”

With no change in his expression, Ben nodded a few times and then put his arm around Morgan’s shoulder.

“Do you remember that little talk we had before the play started—the one where you made me promise not to torture you about hospital stuff?”

“I remember,” she said.

“Good,” he said, pointing toward the theater. “Let’s go back to our seats. We can talk about this some other time.”

Morgan’s stony look quickly faded into a cautious grin. “Good suggestion,” she said. Ben took Morgan’s arm and they headed back to their seats. As soon as they were seated, the lights dimmed.

Lost in thought, Morgan barely noticed the curtain go up on the second act.

DAY THIRTY-THREE

 

 

Walking down West Lake path between the groves of white mangrove and butternut trees, Gideon stopped from time to time to raise his binoculars and study the endless species of woodland birds that habituated Everglades National Park.

Of all the diversions he had tried, he found walking through the park the most conducive for peaceful, uninterrupted thinking. It was one of the few times he found relief from the infernal ringing in his ears, which seemed to be worsening with each passing day.

While peering among the tree branches, his thoughts moved from a nesting snowy egret to Morgan Connolly. After a considerable amount of deliberation, he had finally arrived at a plan to deal with her. Having prepared for any contingency, Gideon considered his plan infallible. All that remained was selecting the day. But at the moment, he had a more pressing problem.

Gideon replaced his binoculars in their case. He noted the time. Next, he slipped his cell phone from his back pocket and tapped in the number to Dade Presbyterian. When the operator answered he asked to be connected to the Cardiac Care Center.

“CCC. This is Mary. How can I help you?”

“This is Mike from patient transportation. We’re going to be a little shorthanded tomorrow, so we’re trying to get our schedule set up now. Do you have any patients scheduled for an MRI?”

“I’m sure we do,” Mary answered. “Did you already call radiology scheduling?”

“I tried,” he began with a moan, “but they have to be the most uncooperative and disorganized department in the hospital.”

“I know what you mean. I’ll check for you.”

“I just need the names of the patients and the time of their MRIs. I’ll make sure we have somebody up there to pick them up on time.”

“No problem. The first one I see is Edward Hastings. He’s scheduled for eight a.m. Christopher Verdugo is going down at nine, and Jerome Hazelton has a head MRI scheduled at three.”

“I got it,” Gideon said. “Thanks a lot. We’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Mary told him. “We usually don’t get this kind of Ritz-Carlton treatment from the transportation department.”

“In that case, tomorrow’s going to be a very special day.”

With nightfall approaching, Gideon turned around and headed back down the rustic path. Against the setting of a declining crimson sun, a large flock of noisy wild parrots swooped across the sky. Gideon stopped to watch. It wasn’t until the last one had disappeared that he again started walking toward the parking lot.

His mind was riveted on Dade Presbyterian Hospital and how they had slipped away from him unscathed—an unfortunate turn of events he would not allow to happen again. This time, the catastrophic Code 15 he would deal the cardiac program would be a fatal blow. Not even the most forgiving AHCA bureaucrat would be able to turn a blind eye to such an egregious medical error. They would have no other choice but to close down the center. The media would not stand idle. The humiliation to Dade Presbyterian would be immeasurable, shaking public’s confidence to the core.

Gideon harbored no doubt that tomorrow’s disaster would be the death bell for Dade Presbyterian’s Cardiac Care Center—a death bell that he’d waited a long time to toll. The only thing left to assure total retribution for the death of his sons would be the end of Morgan Connolly.

DAY THIRTY-FOUR

 

 

Dressed in neatly pressed surgical scrubs, Gideon stood in the middle of the controlled chaos that defined Dade Presbyterian Hospital’s emergency room.

For the third time since he had arrived, he checked to make sure his identification badge was firmly clipped to his shirt pocket. The credential, which was an excellent forgery, identified him as Mark Bellman, a respiratory therapist assigned to the department of pulmonary medicine.

Casually making his way over to a small desk, which was usually used by the nursing students, he took a measured look around. He then picked up the phone and dialed the Cardiac Care Center’s extension.

“CCC. Naomi speaking.”

“This is Stan from MRI. We’re ready for Mr. Hazelton? Is he on his way?”

“Transportation just picked him up.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Feeling more confident with each passing moment, Gideon replaced the receiver and then strolled over to the clean utility room. Standing outside of the small storage room stood six time-beaten metal oxygen tanks. Gideon chose the tank closest to him. He reached for the handle of its metal dolly and wheeled it toward the exit. As he expected, none of the harried and preoccupied ER personnel took any interest in a respiratory therapist picking up a spare tank of oxygen.

If his calculations were correct, Mr. Hazelton would be starting his MRI in about ten minutes. Cautious to stay on schedule, Gideon walked straight past the MRI department. Continuing down the hall toward the main lobby, he stopped when he reached the On-Call Café.

The small bistro, located directly adjacent to the main lobby, specialized in salads and wraps. Since its opening it had been the preferred gathering place for many of the high school students who volunteered at Dade Presbyterian to accumulate community service hours.

Gideon’s original plan was to go inside the café, but when he saw a gaggle of girls coming toward him, he changed his mind. All giggling and talking at the same time, they were dressed in the hospital’s standard red pinstripe uniform. The young lady closest to him was taller and more spindly than the others. Taking note of her glowing complexion, Gideon motioned to her until he caught her eye. She pointed to herself and he acknowledged with a nod. He then gestured at her to come over.

Her nametag identified her as Amanda.

“Amanda,” he began, purposely not introducing himself. “I wonder if you could do me a huge favor.”

She looked back at her inquisitive friends, who were waiting for her. She motioned to them to go ahead without her.

“I guess so,” she said with a coy smile.

“That’s great. Do you know where the MRI department is?”

“Sure,” she said, pointing past him. “It’s just down the hall from the emergency room.”

“You got it,” he said, noticing that she hadn’t once looked at his ID badge. “MRI just called me. They need an extra tank of oxygen. I was on my way over there but the operating room just paged me stat. That means they need me up there right away. Do you think you could wheel this tank over to MRI and deliver it for me?”

She looked at the dark green cylinder. From the look on her face and the way her friends kept eyeing her from inside the café, Gideon knew he had succeeded in making Amanda feel important.

“What should I do when I get there?” she asked.

“Just go straight into the MRI suite and leave the tank with the technicians. I’ll call over there right now and tell them to expect you.”

“Okay,” she said with the same bashful smile, taking the handle of the oxygen tank.

“Thanks again.”

Gideon was tempted to follow her to make sure everything proceeded just the way he had planned. But after a few moments, he decided it would be too risky. He watched Amanda make her way down the corridor toward the MRI department. The moment she disappeared, he marched off in the opposite direction.

It took Amanda only a minute or two to reach the MRI department.

At the same time she was staring at the main door, Mel Kelalis, the chief technician, sat in the control room monitoring the images of Mr. Hazelton’s brain. He looked up for a moment. Through a large window that separated the control room from the MRI machine he saw the door slowly opening. He assumed it was the other technician returning from her break with the diet soda she had promised to bring him. But when he saw Amanda’s uniform, he stopped what he was doing and wondered why a volunteer would be coming into the MRI suite.

Keeping an eye on her, he noticed that her right arm was extended behind her. He was just about to get up, when he saw the perplexed-looking girl looking around the suite. Before he could say anything, she took a couple of cautious steps forward. With the door no longer blocking his vision, he saw the handle of the portable oxygen tank.

Wide-eyed from the panic clutching at his throat, he pounded on the window. Amanda immediately looked in his direction. Still hammering on the window with the palm of his hand, he jumped up, waved his arms, and shrieked, “Stop. Don’t move.”

Racing out from behind the control panel, he could see the fear and confusion sweep across her face. When she took another couple of steps forward he knew she hadn’t heard him and that there was nothing he could do to prevent the cataclys- mic disaster that she had already set in motion.

Lying sedated in the MRI tube listening to piped-in music, Jerome Hazelton, a sixty-year-old accountant who had developed weakness in his right side while recovering uneventfully from coronary bypass surgery, had no clue that he would be spending the rest of the day fighting for his life.

As if it was nothing more than a cheap paperweight, the enormously powerful magnetic field created by the MRI snatched the oxygen tank from its carrier and sent it hurtling across the room. The metallic cylinder, now acting as a high-speed projectile, cut a path directly for the MRI tunnel. Although the tank was a blur, Mel could see it spinning through the air.

A millisecond later, the tank slammed into the outside of the MRI tube, where it remained stuck for a split second before being violently sucked into the tube. The horrible sound of the tank careening off the walls of the MRI resonated around the room like a gunshot in a box canyon.

Mel bolted back to the control console. He tapped the touch-screen command that moved the table holding Mister Hazelton out of the tube. He then grabbed a towel from the shelf above him and raced to the end of the MRI tube. Without consciously knowing why, he took a short step backward at the sight of the gaping wound the tank had sliced into Hazelton’s head. Three jagged bone fragments protruded upward. Together, they framed out a fountain of gushing blood that spewed into the air before raining down on the pillowcase and leaving an amorphous red blot around Hazelton’s head.

Mel moved forward and pressed the towel hard against the wound.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Hazelton?”

There was no response. Not even a groan. Mel looked down to see if he was still breathing. His chest was definitely moving but its motion was shallow and sporadic. Trying desperately to stem the uncontrolled hemorrhage, he pressed the blood-soaked towel even harder against his skull.

Mel knew it was technically impossible to shut down the MRI’s magnet. He also knew that if he called a code blue, personnel from all over the hospital would come running. There would be instant pandemonium and, no doubt, somebody would forget about the metal object precautions. The result would undoubtedly result in a second catastrophe. He looked over at Amanda, whose terrified eyes were locked on him.

Pointing to a phone on the wall, he spoke to her in a calm and clear voice. “Pick up the phone and dial three-four-oh-three. Tell the nurse who answers that Mel in MRI said we have an emergency and that they should call a code purple.” When Amanda didn’t move, Mel repeated. “Go ahead. The phone’s right behind you on the wall. You can do it.”

Amanda nodded, walked the few paces to the phone and picked it up.

“Now dial three-four-oh-three,” he said, stealing another peek at Hazelton’s face. “Go on.”

She tapped in the numbers. “This is one of the volunteers,” she began, looking back at him. “I’m in the MRI suite and Mel wants me to tell you to . . . to—”